Circumstantial evidence

Yesterday we promised to share another bear story. We confess we think this is a bear story but do not have proof of such. Last Thursday we mentioned the destruction of the post on which our backyard bluebird house once was mounted. Yesterday we showed a bear visiting the feeder in the front yard about nine years ago. We also were troubled to notice that the back yard blluebird house had been smashed from its new, improved, stronger post. We didn’t see the perpetrator but can’t picture any local critter other than a bear, very hungry in June, that would have the inclination and ability to do this:

who but a bear would do this?

Photo by J. Harrington

We don’t know if there were eggs or fledglings in the house. We hope not although we suspect fledgling noises might have attracted the culprit’s attention. The remnants of the nest are on the ground between the lilacs and the post. Someday soon we’ll remove the nest and pull the post. Until and unless we figure out how to install a bear-proof bluebird house, we won’t set another adult pair up for the kind of frustration and failure the pair pictured below seem to experience. Pardon the anthropomorphism, but they look much like a “WTF happened?” pair.

bluebirds perched on smashed house

Photo by J. Harrington

Last year we had lots of conflict between the tree swallows that nested in a tall aluminum house up on a tall pole on the hill and the bluebirds. This year we didn’t mount the swallow house (supposedly designed for purple martins) back to the top of its pole. So far this year, neither swallows nor martins are resident. This summer we’ve gone from too much moisture to none locally and too many birds last year to none except at the feeders. I don’t like the pattern that shows.

THE BLUEBIRD

by Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

Watch an animated version of the poem at the marginalian. 

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Who's that squatting in my bluebird house?

Yesterday afternoon I opened the front of the restored bluebird house. The contents left me taken aback. I've seen similar, larger nests in heron rookeries and made by eagles or ospreys. Never before have I come across a nest in a bluebird or martin house made entirely of twigs or sticks and looking like this.

who built this stack of twigs?

Photo by J. Harrington

Thanks to the wonders of the internets,  I was able to search for possible explanations of which bird or birds would fill a bluebird house with twigs and only twigs. There's a long list, longer than I expected, of "Nests and eggs that may show up in bluebird nestboxes." Since, in past years, I may have misidentified a house finch as a purple finch, the twigs may have belonged to a house finch. Then, again, based on the  photos of the "dummy nest," I'm leaning toward identifying the mess I cleaned out as having belonged to a house wren. I'll keep an eye on the nesting box more frequently in hopes that a bluebird of happiness may return to raise a family if it doesn't have to battle squatters.

bird on the right: purple finch  or house finch?

Photo by J. Harrington

Two years ago, for the  first time I noticed, the tree swallows that have been nesting over the years in the house we put up to attract martins were battling the bluebirds over territory. Last year the neighborhood bear took down the nesting box, consumed the eggs or nestlings, and left a broken 2" X 4" on which the box had been mounted for about twenty years. This year, along with all the other craziness of 2020, the restored bluebird house has attracted some other species. I am truly starting to yearn for the good old days, although I read that the arrow of time travels in only one direction. It may be interesting to see what else happens between now and the start of migration season.

Baby Wrens’ Voices

By Thomas R. Smith

I am a student of wrens. 

When the mother bird returns 

to her brood, beak squirming 

with winged breakfast, a shrill 

clamor rises like jingling 

from tiny, high-pitched bells. 

Who’d have guessed such a small 

house contained so many voices? 

The sound they make is the pure sound 

of life’s hunger. Who hangs our house 

in the world’s branches, and listens 

when we sing from our hunger? 

Because I love best those songs 

that shake the house of the singer, 

I am a student of wrens.

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Any nest in a storm?

I don't want to name names, but someone in this household is afraid of thunder. It makes her very nervous. She seeks security and reassurance with lots of petting and snuggling. This didn't used to be an issue. It's not clear what happened to turn a blondish, yellow lab cross-breed into a scaredy cat. (Ssshhh, don't tell her I said wrote that!) She thought that maybe an early breakfast at 2:30ish am followed by a walk might help her settle down. We had a break in the rain so we tried that. It worked for awhile, until the next round of lightning and thunder rolled through. I am not responsible of any typos that may pop up in today's posting. I thought I'd foregone sleep deprivation when the youngest child started school those many years ago. I was overly optimistic (me? 😉).

what makes you think I'm afraid of a little thunder?

Photo by J. Harrington

At least we didn't get the five inches or so that flooded several counties South of us, but the "wet spot" in the back yard is once again showing water. It had shrunk to a layer of mud during the past few weeks. The low spot in the driveway is once again a puddle. Birds frequently use it to take a bath. I suspect, from the news and weather reports this morning, the trout streams we were planning on fishing thus week may not be in prime condition, so we'll save them for another time.

a bluebird egg in an abandoned nest

Photo by J. Harrington

Before the storms arrive last night, I saw what I think was a bluebird perched on top of the reinstalled bluebird house. It may be that the plan to provide a potential home for a second brood this Summer might pay off. Once before we managed a picture of a bluebird egg that had failed to hatch, so we have a decent idea of what bluebird eggs look like. I'll slog out this afternoon and report back tomorrow if the hordes of deer flies don't grab me and drag me off into the woods.

We hope you remain warm, dry, and virus-free and that your house isn't in one of the recently identified flood-prone areas that our new, more volatile weather patterns are helping us discover.

Egg

By Brian Swann

We are in the position of defining myth by the shape of its absence.
-Sean Kane, Wisdom of the Mythtellers

The bluebird's cold mistimed egg

fetched up from the one-legged

box after the pair had left for

points south & unknown (never,

as it turned out, to return) I

renested in the half-geode by

the windowsill where it gleamed

&, months becoming years, seemed

about to last forever, grow more

consistent with itself, holding its pure

blue firmament up over what by now

was nothing, till one January day, snow

melting to a fast flood,

I blew it softly onto my palm so I could

hold its cerulean up against new sky,

home against home, where it lay

weightless & delicate as the Xmas ornament

we'd just put away, but when I went

to roll it gently back onto its bed,

& leave it there, I saw a thread,

a crack, another, watched it sink in

slowly on itself, shard on shard collapsing

from my touch & breath, relaxing

into the shape of its absence

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Of acorns and spiderwort #phenology

Today is very much the antithesis of a February blizzard day. The sky is full of popcorn clouds. The breeze is very slight, barely tempering the warm air. Nature seems to be enjoying a lull but perhaps that's just projection on our part. Out in the garage there's a garden cart that needs assembly. For today, tomorrow seems soon enough to get to that. We're not feeling lethargic, just plain, ordinary lazy, calm and content, for a change.

wild spiderwort in a field of grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

Out in the fields there are scattered spiderwort blossoms. Wikipedia lists some fascinating uses of this plant:

Native Americans used T. virginianato treat a number of conditions, including stomachache. It was also used as a food source.^[19] The cells of the stamen hairs of some Tradescantiaare colored blue, but when exposed to sources of ionizing radiation such as gamma rays, the cells mutate and change color to pink; they are one of the few tissues known to serve as an effective bioassay for ambient radiation levels.^[7][19]

from little acorns grow...

Photo by J. Harrington

The density of Summer leaves makes them difficult to see, but acorns, which we usually associate with Autumn, are starting to develop on local oak trees. One indicator of our imaginative ability to actually "see" reality is whether we can envision a mature oak when we see just an acorn. Are we similarly challenged when we look at the opportunities in our lives?

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

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what's buggin' us

The Better Half was pulling weeds from the flower beds this morning. She discovered what we think is a black swallowtail caterpillar (Third Instar Stage). Of course, when we returned later with a camera, said caterpiggly was nowhere to be found. No so the katydid we discovered ourselves the other day on the inside of the screened patio. If our increasingly temperamental memory doesn't deceive us, that's the first time we've ever seen a katydid in the flesh.

screened-in katydid

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's weather again has us looking forward to Autumn's cooler temperatures and breezes. We once again pulled a few small buckthorn shrubs and a couple of handfuls (handsfull?) of nettles that were encroaching on what passes for a front yard. We're working toward a new philosophy wherein doing outside chores replaces time spent sitting on our duffs or doing the equivalent of PT exercises, that keeps our joints from rusting in place and our muscles from fading entirely away.

blue giant hyssop

Photo by J. Harrington

We've again discovered that, even when we think we're paying attention, too often we're not paying enough attention. The latest instance involved our efforts to (re)identify blue giant hyssop. We were, for a time, convinced that the plants along our drive had multiple flower heads spreading off of one stem. The field guide pictures didn't show that arrangement. Finally, we broke down and went back to look at the real thing. One flower head per stem is what's there, it looks different if one isn't paying careful attention. Sometimes we rue not having learned thee lessons when we were much younger, but in those days we were sure we knew everything we needed to know and had little if any need to pay attention to anyone or anything but ourselves. Yet another example of the benefits of lifelong learning.

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE TUESDAY.

Planting the Meadow

By Mary Makofske

I leave the formal garden of schedules  

where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs  

of thought, and day after day, a boxwood  

topiary hunt chases a green fox  

never caught. No voice calls me to order  

as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel  

to earth and, moving east to west, second  

the motion only of the sun. I plant  

frail seedlings in the unplowed field, trusting  

the wildness hidden in their hearts. Spring light  

sprawls across false indigo and hyssop,  

daisies, flax. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold  

or promise rain. In time, outside of time,  

the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers.

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Summertime Blues

No,not the Eddie Cochran song. Our lilac bush has belatedly(?) produced some bluish-purple flowers. The feral lilacs up the road, and most of the others in our neck of the woods, blossomed back in May and June. We're not sure what's going on with ours. Is it a cultivar with a later in the Summer flower pattern?

spotted horsemint

Photo by J. Harrington

We've also noticed the growth of several large patches of spotted horsemint (Monarda punctata) in the fields. According to one of our field guides, it's a favorite nectar source of the karner blue butterfly, an endangered species. A 1990 survey failed to confirm the butterfly's presence in Chisago county but did note the presence of a large population of lupine (needed flower for garner blues) in Wild River state park and noted the butterfly's existence across the St.Croix River in Wisconsin. We've seen some small blue butterflies around here this Summer and last, but haven't been able to confirm an identification.

Buckthorn pulling season has started again, although it's too warm to do much at a time. We're also pulling weeds since we're contemplating starting a butterfly garden behind the house, but need to find shade tolerant plants. Despite a West facing location, some oaks to the South shade until late in the day the location we've in mind.

Finally, for today, we think we've found another active pocket gopher location so we will once again set some traps, being ever mindful of Samuel Beckett's observation, "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."

The Blue

By Camille T. Dungy

One will live to see the Caterpillar rut everything

they walk on—seacliff buckwheat cleared, relentless

ice plant to replace it, the wild fields bisected

by the scenic highway, canyons covered with cul-de-sacs,

gas stations, comfortable homes, the whole habitat

along this coastal stretch endangered, everything,

everyone, everywhere in it danger as well—

but now they're logging the one stilling hawk

Smith sights, the conspiring grasses' shh shhhh ssh,

the coreopsis Mattoni's boot barely spares,

and, netted, a solitary blue butterfly. Smith

ahead of him chasing the stream, Mattoni wonders

if he plans to swim again. Just like that

the spell breaks. It's years later, Mattoni lecturing

on his struggling butterfly. How fragile.  

           •

If his daughter spooled out the fabric

she's chosen for her wedding gown,

raw taffeta, burled, a bright hued tan,

perhaps Mattoni would remember

how those dunes looked from a distance,

the fabric, balanced between her arms,

making valleys in the valley, the fan

above her mimicking the breeze.

He and his friend loved everything

softly undulating under the coyest wind,

and the rough truth as they walked

through the land's scratch and scrabble

and no one was there, then, besides Mattoni

and his friend, walking along Dolan's Creek,

in that part of California they hated

to share. The ocean, a mile or so off,

anything but passive so that even there,

in the canyon, they sometimes heard it smack

and pull well-braced rocks. The breeze,

basic: salty, bitter, sour, sweet. Smith trying

to identify the scent, tearing leaves

of manzanita, yelling: "This is it. Here! This is it!"

his hand to his nose, his eyes, having finally seen

the source of his pleasure, alive.

               •

In the lab, after the accident, he remembered it,

the butterfly. How good a swimmer Smith had been,

how rough the currents there at Half Moon Bay, his friend

alone with reel and rod—Mattoni back at school

early that year, his summer finished too soon—

then all of them together in the sneaker wave,

and before that the ridge, congregations of pinking

blossoms, and one of them bowing, scaring up the living,

the frail and flighty beast too beautiful

to never be pinned, those nights Mattoni worked

without his friend, he remembered too.

He called the butterfly Smith's Blue.

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Blue skies, blue birds, blue #phenology?

Amidst the strife and tribulations of daily life, blue skies, warm temperatures and the bluebirds of happiness have returned to the neighborhood. My solitary sighting today was validated by the Daughter Person's mention of having seen a pair yesterday. It's getting to be time to dig out the feeders for the orioles and hummingbirds, but no meal worms this year. What a failure last year!

the bluebirds have returned, Happiness!

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow we can expect thunderstorms if the weather forecast is to be believed. Is Minnesota learning how to do a proper Spring? Even the daylilies are starting to peek up from the thawed ground, but they sprouted much earlier  in 2012. This no doubt means I need to go check (again) on the skunk cabbage soon. Spring's "early" this year, but there's a benefit to having time-stamped photos from other years to refresh my frequently faulty memory about the sequence of seasonal events, all, that is, except for Spring cleaning in and around the house. There's been no discernible pattern to that over the years, demonstrating that we humans can be, and sometimes are, less consistent than Mother Nature, or is it simply a sign that we are part of nature and her variability?

emergent daylilies, late March 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

The Daring One

By Edwin Markham

I would my soul were like the bird   

That dares the vastness undeterred.   

Look, where the bluebird on the bough   

Breaks into rapture even now!   

He sings, tip-top, the tossing elm   

As tho he would a world o’erwhelm.   

Indifferent to the void he rides   

Upon the wind’s eternal tides.

He tosses gladly on the gale,

For well he knows he can not fail—

Knows if the bough breaks, still his wings   

Will bear him upward while he sings! 

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So much depends

I hope you all had a great weekend and enjoyable Easter if that's what you celebrate. As this is written, the back yard is full of northbound juncos and clumps of wet snowflakes. Bird feeders are full of goldfinches in bright yellow Spring breeding colors. The air is polka-dotted with snow-flake clumps on their way to the ground. The gray skies and falling snow would make me blue but we need the moisture and I'm pretty sure we're going to see prompt melting despite a 33F morning temperature. Minnesota sends very mixed messages at this time of year, but, we can celebrate an accomplishment: today we finish the list of blue colors with the last four names on the list. Actually, I'm not convinced that smalt and smalt blue warrant separate listings, but they were so published, so we'll deal with it, sort of. Conversely, information about Vestorian Blue was found under its name as a synonym for Egyptian Blue.

• Smalt:                       Definition     Images
• Smalt Blue:              Definition     Images
• Thénard's Blue:        Definition     Images
• Vestorian Blue:        Definition     Images

One of the incentives for wandering the Internet looking for definitions and images of shades of blue (or green) is sometimes there's a wonderful and unexpected discovery. I'll share two that came about through the blue and green paths we've made. First, do you know there's a web site named Color Matters? It has pages on the symbolism of different colors, including one for the color blue and a phenomenal amount of additional information about color. Second, when I was searching for a "color dictionary," I came across a basic color thesaurus that's been really helpful as a writing aid.

Barbarea vulgaris (Garden Yellow Rocket)?
or Apocynum sibiricum (Clasping Dogbane)?

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday my Better Half joined me on a local exploration looking for a chance to get some photos of pasque flowers. We didn't spot any but we did find the general locations where they're supposed to grow. They're close enough that we can comfortably check a couple of times a week. While we wait, it's fun discovering how photogenic winter wildflowers and weeds can be. A preliminary identification effort makes me think hope these are Yellow Rocket, but maybe they're Dogbane. For now, let's proceed with the idea that they're one or the other.  [updated adding dogbane option]

We made another discovery that provides today's poem. Finding it made my day. Could it be a country version of Paul Simon's Poem on the Underground Wall? No, but it's cool in its own country way.

a poetry barn?

Photo by J. Harrington

a poem on the barn wall

Photo by J. Harrington

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Happy Easter! Celebrate Life!

Yesterday, Pope Francis is reported to have said, in reference to the mystery of Easter, "To enter into the mystery means going beyond our own comfort zone, beyond the laziness and indifference which hold us back, and going out in search of truth, beauty and love." That strikes me as also providing a wonderful key to the mystery of life in a sustainable world. Can we agree to commit ourselves to such a search?

The Pope was not reported as having said anything about the color blue, perhaps because the Easter vigil service started in darkness. So, today's hues of blue are brought to us not by the Pope, but by the bluebird of happiness.

• Paris Blue:        Definition (see Synonyms)    Images
• Possuoli Blue:   Definition (scroll down)        Images
• Sky Blue:          Definition     Images

Robert Frost's poem doesn't mention blue, but, as I read it, it does pick up nicely on the Pope's theme of "truth, beauty and love." That'll do for me.

butterflies on a tuft of flowers

Photo by J. Harrington

The Tuft of Flowers

By Robert Frost 

I went to turn the grass once after one

Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen

Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;

I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,

And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

As all must be,' I said within my heart,

Whether they work together or apart.'

But as I said it, swift there passed me by

On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night

Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,

As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,

And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,

And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look

At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared

Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,

Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,

By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.

But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,

Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,

And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;

So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,

And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech

With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

Men work together,' I told him from the heart,

Whether they work together or apart.' 

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When blue skies make us blue

As much as I enjoy sunshine and warmth, and I do, My Minnesota could use a little less blue skies for awhile and more sky blue water falling from gray skies. Almost all (92%) of the state is experiencing moderate drought, not yet like California, but enough to notice and start to be concerned.

With today's three blue hues, we're more than halfway through our list. I'm starting to see a pattern in which some of the names listed reference the same color under a different name. Unfortunately, the examples of the colors often have a variety of hues and shades. For example, for Indian blue one reference refers us to Indigo and notes Leyden blue is another name for Cobalt. It's too bad Linnaeus never tackled colors. Here's today's triumvirate of blues, which may or may not be three different hues.

• Indian Blue:         Definition     Images
• Leyden Blue:       Definition     Images
• Mountain Blue:    Definition     Images

Today's Poem-a-Day includes the word bluet, the long-leaf variety of which grows in Minnesota. During the past year or so I've been discovering more and more linkages between Minnesota and New England. That pleases me all out of proportion to any practical significance. Instead of oil or tar sands, maybe we need a pipeline from the melting snows on the east coast to California's reservoirs.

looking down toward St. Croix Falls - Taylors Falls

Photo by J. Harrington

The Vantage Point

Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963 

If tired of trees I seek again mankind,
    Well I know where to hie me—in the dawn,
    To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.
There amid lolling juniper reclined,
Myself unseen, I see in white defined
    Far off the homes of men, and farther still
    The graves of men on an opposing hill,
Living or dead, whichever are to mind.

And if by noon I have too much of these,
    I have but to turn on my arm, and lo,
    The sunburned hillside sets my face aglow,
My breathing shakes the bluet like a breeze,
    I smell the earth, I smell the bruisèd plant,
    I look into the crater of the ant.

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Some geography of blues

Each hue of blue today has a geographic place associated with its name. Bremen is a city in northwestern Germany. Delft is a city in the Netherlands and Wikipedia informs us that Egypt "is a transcontinental country spanning the northeast corner of Africa and southwest corner of Asia"....

• Bremen Blue:      Definition     Images
• Delft Blue:          Definition     Images
• Egyptian Blue:    Definition     Images

In the geography of My Minnesota, more and more of the local lakes are turning from ice blue to sky blue as Spring becomes more established and ice out occurs. The wood ducks are back in town. Yesterday I put the photographic sneaks on some sitting on the nearby pond.

a small flock of wood ducks

Photo by J. Harrington

There wasn't enough cover for me to get closer before they all decided they didn't want to have anything to do with whatever was sneaking up on them and took off. They do add a cheery touch of Spring color to the scene, even if there's basically no blue on them except for the blue-gray of the hen's bill [update: and some wing feathers].

Rivers are often blue, the Mississippi starts in and flows through Minnesota, Langston Hughes is noted for writing blues poems, and the Nile is a river in Egypt, home of Egyptian blue. Thus we continue our blues and poetry themes through Good Friday.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

By Langston Hughes 

I’ve known rivers:

I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

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Colors and pigments, hues of blues, oh my!

There was just enough rain last night to freshen the countryside this morning. It looks all clean. Skies seem to be clearing from the west where the skies are mostly blue, easterly, not so much. If the skies were entirely blue, they might be one or more of these three hues:

• Blue Ashes:       Definition     Images
• Blue Bice:          Definition     Images
• Blue Verditer:    Definition     Images

blue skies, blue water, blue hues

Photo by J. Harrington

To my recollection, I had never encountered any of today's blue hue names before finding them in the Book of Color. I'm also starting to belatedly put a few more pieces of the color puzzle together. For example, biomimicry is helping develop better solar panels by shedding light on how butterfly wings look blue without using blue pigments. Biomimicry also may be a source of solutions to some of Anthropogenic Climate Disruption's other drivers. It seems to me that we need to develop an attitude of reciprocity rather than exploitation toward earth. Biomimicry is one way to get there. Learning and following Original Instructions is another.

In case you missed it, Minnesota's first poet laureate, Robert Bly, has a new book available, Like the New Moon I Will Live My Life. The cover is mostly blue of different hues.

Under the heading of better late than never, here, directly from the Academy of American Poets, are:

30 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month

1. Order a free National Poetry Month poster and display it at work or school.
2. Sign up for Poem-a-Day and read a poem each morning.
3. Deepen your daily experience by reading Edward Hirsch’s essay “How to Read a Poem.”
4. Memorize a poem.
5. Create an anthology of your favorite poems on Poets.org.
6. Encourage a young person to participate in the Dear Poet project.
7. Buy a book of poetry from your local bookstore.
8. Review these concrete examples of how poetry matters in the United States today.
9. Learn more about poets and poetry events in your state.
10. Ask your governor or mayor for a proclamation in support of National Poetry Month.
11. Attend a poetry reading at a local university, bookstore, cafe, or library.
12. Read a poem at an open mic. It’s a great way to meet other writers in your area and find out about your local poetry writing community.
13. Start a poetry reading group.
14. Write an exquisite corpse poem with friends.
15. Chalk a poem on the sidewalk.
16. Write a letter to a poet thanking them for their work.
17. Ask the United States Post Office to issue more stamps celebrating poets.
18. Recreate a poet’s favorite food or drink by following his or her recipe.
19. Read about different poetic forms.
20. Read about poems titled “poem.”
21. Read the first chapter of Muriel Rukeyer’s inspiring book, The Life of Poetry.
22. Subscribe to American Poets magazine or a small press poetry journal.
23. Watch Rachel Eliza Griffiths' latest Poets on Poetry video.
24. Watch or read Carolyn Forche’s talk “Not Persuasion, But Transport: The Poetry of Witness.”
25. Read or listen to Mark Doty’s talk “Tide of Voices: Why Poetry Matters Now.”
26. Read Allen Ginsberg’s classic essay about Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.”
27. Watch a poetry movie.
28. Sign up for a poetry class or workshop.
29. Get ready for Mother’s Day by making a card featuring a line of poetry.
30. Celebrate National Poem in Your Pocket Day on April 30, 2015. The idea is simple: select a poem you love, carry it with you, then share it with coworkers, family, and friends.

and, number 31, of course, would be to read My Minnesota each day in April.

Finally, we send our prayers, best wishes and songs of hope for a speedy recovery to Joni Mitchell. We're encouraged she is reported to be doing well in the hospital. She gave us yet another view of blue.

Blue

by Joni Mitchell  

Blue songs are like tattoos
You know I've been to sea before
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
Hey Blue, here is a song for you
Ink on a pin
Underneath the skin
An empty space to fill in
Well there're so many sinking now
You've got to keep thinking
You can make it thru these waves
Acid, booze, and ass
Needles, guns, and grass
Lots of laughs lots of laughs
Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go
Well I don't think so
But I'm gonna take a look around it though
Blue I love you

Blue here is a shell for you
Inside you'll hear a sigh
A foggy lullaby
There is your song from me


© 1970; Joni Mitchell


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Today is NOT April Fools' Day!------Today is the start of National Poetry Month

Is that analogous to saying "Everything I say is a lie?" I bet you're glad we have that taken care of. It's more like poetry and far from an April Fool's joke to realize that we live on what we now know is our only Blue Marble. Do you know the story of that phrase?

On December 7, 1972, the crew of Apollo 17 changed the way we look at our home planet. This photograph illustrates the Earth as an isolated ecosystem, floating in space.

(Astronaut photograph AS17-148-22727
courtesy NASA Johnson Space Center Gateway to Astronaut Photography of Earth)

Look at that photograph and think about what's changed in the 40+ years since the photograph was taken. Then think back further to when Copernicus (19 February 1473 – 24 May 1543) and Galileo (15 February 1564 – 8 January 1642) lived and got in trouble for proposing that the earth was not the center of the universe or even the solar system. Consider how far we've come and how much has changed in the past 500 years. (By the way, does thinking that Copernicus lived 500+ years ago give you an idea of how long a PolyMet mine might have to treat waste water. Really?)

I obviously like the idea of using the Blue Marble image as an introduction to our exploration this month of blue names. After all, our Blue Marble has blue skies, here in Minnesota we have sky-blue water and don't forget Babe, the blue ox. Once in awhile, we have a blue moon or blue snow. None of those tell us much about the hue of blue we should be imagining. Here's some choices from the first three blue hues in our name list:

• Alexandrian Blue:    Definition     Images
• Antwerp Blue:          Definition     Images
• Berlin Blue:              Definition     Images

Now, let's pick up on National Poetry Month, brought to us by the Academy of American Poets [full disclosure: I've been a member for several years]. They also produce Poem-a-Day. Today's is by someone with Minnesota connections and mentions "ice and smoke" and "police". Do any of those make you think of a blue hue?

Honestly,

John Ashbery, 1927 

we could send you out there
to join the cackle squad,
but hey, that highly accomplished,
thinly regarded equestrian—well there was no way
he was going to join the others’ field trip.
Wouldn’t put his head on the table.
But here’s the thing:

They had owned great dread,
knew of a way to get away from here
through ice and smoke
always clutching her fingers, like it says
to do.

Once we were passionate about the police,
yawned in the teeth of pixels,
but a far rumor blanked us out.
We bathed in moonshine.
Now, experts disagree.
Were we unhappy or sublime?
We’ll have to wait until the next time
an angel comes rapping at the door
to rejoice docently.

(I know there’s a way to do this.)

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.