No April Fools here!

April is the month
of poetry
of snow melt
of snow fall
of the return
of ducks, geese, swans, and
of herons and cranes, and
of red-winged blackbirds

April 4, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of bud burst
of leafout
of showers of rain
of snow
of sunshine and
of wild flowers

April 2, 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of greening
of flowing
of Easters
of growing
of nesting
of warming
of cooling

Here in the North Country
April is the month
when life that survived
begins again to thrive

Welcome April!

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When thaw becomes flow

Today is Palm Sunday and next Sunday is Easter, for those who celebrate. Yesterday was the third (inter)national No Kings protest. (The Better Half and I braved mid-day local wind chills in the teens for almost an hour while participating.) This coming Wednesday is April Fools Day. I'm mildly troubled by the juxtaposition of those latter two events but the next demonstrations are planned for May Day, which is also Beltane. With only 365 days to work with most years, we have to do the best we can as we schedule things. It's not just western water rights that are subject to prior appropriation.

late March: time for new growth to flow

Photo by J. Harrington

April Fools Day also brings us the start of National Poetry Month, this year celebrating its thirtieth anniversary. In recognition of the times we're living in, and the times we've lived through, I'm going to celebrate the month by focusing my reading attention on Bob Dylan Lyrics 1962 — 2001. Some of his recordings have been showing up on the shuffle play list in my Jeep, and I find it both reassuring and disconcerting how well many of his lyrics from years ago seem to fit today's tempora et mores.

Large flocks of dark-eyed juncos and of robins have been observed this week past. I'm inclined to tempt fate and take the back blade off the tractor some warmer day this coming week, but not Wednesday. I'm hoping that one day soon warmer weather will arrive and stay and then hanging around outside will be something to look forward to, until the mosquitos and deer flies arrive. But that's weeks away, right? Meanwhile, the last mounds and shaded patches of snow still have to melt.

This year our country celebrates its 250th anniversary. Dylan wrote a song / poem that I believe fits and represents my birthday wishes for this and each succeeding anniversary.

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young          

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As we approach a time of resurrection

We’re close to mid-April this Palm Sunday. Here in the North Country, April is a time of snow showers and wild flowers. Wild turkeys begin mating rituals. Song birds return. Pregnant whitetail does will be dropping fawns in a month or two. Plant life (re)emerges from its winter retreat. Lakes and ponds lose their ice cover and some of us begin to lose our cabin fever as we wander about noticing Spring’s buds and blooms and growing warmth and open waters.

SiSi the yellow lab in her new home

Photo by J. Harrington

It was twelve years ago this month that SiSi came to live with us. She was between one and two when she arrived as a "rescue." We have had many happy times since she came and she has definitely done a good job of rescuing me. I'm glad we get to enjoy another Spring together, even though the Better Half has already found the first tick of the season on her.

April is also National Poetry Month. As part of my celebration, I bought a copy of Heidi Barr’s latest book of poems, Church of Shadow and Light, at a local independent book store, Scout & Morgan. As soon as I finish posting this, I'm going to start reading some of those poems as a reward for beginning Spring chores today. The back blade came off the tractor; both the front and back hoses got hooked up and water turned on; pounds of winter's mud got rinsed off the Jeep. It feels really good to be out and about doing something other than blowing snow, although we didn't have much of that to do this past winter.

Ever since last November, I've grown more and more concerned about the direction the returning administration has been trying to drag US and about the limited resistance expressed by those who are intended to serve as checks and balances to unbalanced behavior. Our current situation makes me think off how Native Americans have felt about the trail of broken treaties left behind by US. Maybe we'll respond to the stresses we're experiencing by realizing that we've allowed our spirits to be broken by relying on transactions instead of engaging in relationships. Perhaps we can learn what to do if we read and remember this poem.

For Calling The Spirit Back From Wandering The Earth In Its Human Feet

by Joy Harjo

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that
bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel
the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give back with gratitude.

If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and
back.

Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were
a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.

Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the
guardians who have known you before time,
who will be there after time.
They sit before the fire that has been there without time.

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people
who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought
down upon them.

Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises,
interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and
those who will despise you because they despise themselves.

The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few
years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.

Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and
leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the
thieves of time.

Do not hold regrets.

When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning
by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.

You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.

Ask for forgiveness.

Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.

Call yourself back. You will find yourself caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It will return
in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be
happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and
given clean clothes.

Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who
loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no
place else to go.

Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.

Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.

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‘Twixt Valentines and Spring

We hope you had a warm Valentine’s Day full of hugs, kisses and loves. Ours did and added too much candy to be good for us since we were just finishing off the Christmas stash. Time to start practicing self control again. Wish me luck!!

Over the past few days we’ve watched a flock of a baker’s dozen turkey hens scratch the daylights out of our back yard. Where there had been a couple of inches of snow cover, after the birds’ visits, oak leaves cover the ground. They no doubt found most of the acorns they were looking for or they’d still be scratching for them. Yesterday, as they trod downhill, they looked like a division of miniature tanks coming toward the house. By sometime next month, toms may start to gobble as mating season begins.

red osier dogwood brightening

Photo by J. Harrington

At the moment, we’re under an “Extreme Cold Watch” with wind chills from minus 33 to minus 39 forecast for tomorrow and Tuesday. By next weekend, daytime highs are forecast to reach above freezing. Remember the old saying “If winter’s here, can spring be far behind?” Let’s hope it’s right (behind)!! Meteorologically we’re now less than two weeks from the beginning of spring on March 1.

It’s about that time of year when red osier dogwood begins to brighten tamarack swamps. Soon we’ll be hearing the tinkles and tunks of snowmelt dripping and flowing as nature begins to climb out from under her winter blanket. Spring is a season the Minnesota does not usually do well. The pattern is too often cold, cold, cool, warm, hot, over about that many days. Maybe this year will be an exception to the usual and we’ll get to enjoy an extended, gradual warming over weeks to come. Maybe some year the Vikings will win the Superbowl, too. Lots of natural, and naturalized, Minnesotans have become quite good at saying “Wait ’til next year.”

Here in the North Country, by the time we leave Black History Month, we will be entering the

Country of Water

Mahogany L. Browne

I know who I am because I believe it

The breath in my chest
Insistent in its choice

The skin that I’m in
The bones and blood and veins
It carries like a promise

          Have you witnessed the ocean

Moving with so much gust and life
Have you witnessed the river
Still waters bubbling the rebirth of school

           Have you witnessed your body

Its own country of water
Moving against the tide of a world
So heartbreaking      it’s forgotten its own voice

Be still friend
Be still
Be kind to yourself in the gift of stillness

I know who I am because I believe it
I know
I know
Who I
Who I
Believe
Believe
Believe
In three’s we will come
A drip of water moving against a boulder
Water slow and steady can turn rock
Into a pebble
Like anxiety
Like self-doubt
Smaller
Smaller
Until gone
Let your love for yourself be the water
Be the rise
Be the mist
Let you be

I know who I am because I believe it
I believe I am my mother’s daughter
I believe I am my grandmother’s prayers
I believe I am my great-grandmother’s backbone revealed

I am I am because I believe so
I am because a woman believed in me
What a continent I became
What a country of water I be
I flow and fluid and rise and ebb and I believe in me

           I am not wrong
I am wronged

In this skin I’ve reclaimed
From this trap of this country’s tourniquet
Only to find the sweet solace is a river bed
Its mud beckons me closer to its silt
Small fish and forgotten glass unearth themselves
Like baby teeth
Only one can cut into flesh purposely
Only one does not know what it is capable of

I believe in the air as much as I believe in the fire
I believe in the fire as much as the water consumes
I believe in a higher source
Energetic and wise
I believe in my ability to thrive

This body
        This body is a good thing

Turning two miles walked over a bridge into a family’s meal
Creating poems that become cashier’s checks
Dentist bills and rent
I’ve three holes in my teeth
And a nation that pretends I didn’t almost die for it to survive

I am I am still here still here
I am still here and like the ocean, full of salt and shells
Full of ship remnants and noble ones
I bleed and the sand grieves
I be because someone survived for me to be here
Today

Breathing this almost air
Marching for cleaner belongings
My front seat beneath the deadening stars
Is still a seat
Is still a ground
Is still a home that I can pronounce my given name
To write amongst the forgotten names
The taken and the ignored
But today

            There are no tombstones

Today
There is no true death

Only life
Only life
Only a song of the living
Maybe even a belief system
With water as its minister

            I am water

I dive into my own currents
I dress my dreams in the satin breath
Of my ancestors

I know
I know
I know who I am
I know who I am because I believe it

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Pondering the imponderable

When Mother Nature tries to squeeze a winter’s worth of weather into one week, some folks feel claustrophobic after the first few days of that week. Meanwhile, during our morning walk today, the dogs agreed that this weather isn’t fit for man nor beast, but wondered who’s the beast and does bff mean beast friends forever? I think snow storms four out of five days are affecting everyone. Remember the old joke about pounding one’s head against a brick wall because it feels so good when you stop?

I acknowledge that, until recently, a relatively mild and snowless winter had me less than enthusiastic about spring’s arrival. It would have been largely same old, same old... Not any more! I am so looking forward to the thaw/melt and greening because it will be such a radical change! No doubt it will take awhile, but flowers and butterflies will eventually arrive, followed by dragonflies. By then we will be somewhere around the end of May and beginning of June and I may have even completed a couple of fishing trips.

old apple tree with a single apple

Photo by J. Harrington

In the interim, I plan to read some poetry, reread Linda Hogan’s Dwellings, bake some bread, and listen for the sounds of flowing waters. I’m also debating forgoing news and social media until the majority of the human race shows signs of sanity. But if I don't check news and social media, how will I know sanity may have begun to prevail?

Gather

Rose McLarney

Some springs, apples bloom too soon.
The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick
to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs,
pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty
and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.

Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the trees, golden apples
glow in sheer skin. Their weight breaks branches,
the ground rolls with apples, and you fall in fruit.

You could say, I have been foolish. You could say, I have been fooled.
You could say, Some years, there are apples.

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Spring is overflowing

Roadside ditches are full of flowing waters. Low areas in farm fields have become ephemeral ponds. Floodplain wetlands and marshes are flooded. Spring and snowmelt have arrived, accompanied by flock after flock of migrating songbirds and waterfowl.

local creeks flowing more than bankful

Photo by J. Harrington

Several upland fields held a pair or more of sandhill cranes. We can confirm seeing the first robin of the season. The Better Half shared a photo she took of a butterfly. And yet, it was quite disconcerting to drive back roads with the window down in the Jeep, enjoying temperatures over 70℉, while looking at substantial snow cover on many fields, in many wooded areas, and residual snow banks along ditches.

The melting snow in the fields behind the house has revealed a mess made by underground critters during the winter. After the soil has dried, we’ll drag a harrow over the mounds and tunnels that have been turned up. Before we get to that, we’ll collect and burn garden carts full of dropped, broken, branches and finish picking up the winter’s worth of dog droppings. At least those chores will have us outside enjoying sunshine, warmth, and the opportunity to walk on bare, greening ground.

It will be a few more days before the level of mud in the dog run has diminished to the point where we can let our two out for some free play time and be able to safely let them back into the house. Meanwhile, we’re going to figure out what to wear over the next couple of days as high  temperatures creep into the eighties and then drop back into the fifties over the weekend. If anyone has good, tested, suggestions on how to organize a seasonal wardrobe for that kind of pattern, please drop a note in the comments.

April

By Alicia Ostriker

The optimists among us

taking heart because it is spring

skip along

attending their meetings

signing their e-mail petitions

marching with their satiric signs

singing their we shall overcome songs

posting their pungent twitters and blogs

believing in a better world

for no good reason

I envy them

said the old woman

The seasons go round they

go round and around

said the tulip

dancing among her friends

in their brown bed in the sun

in the April breeze

under a maple canopy

that was also dancing

only with greater motions

casting greater shadows

and the grass

hardly stirring

What a concerto

of good stinks said the dog

trotting along Riverside Drive

in the early spring afternoon

sniffing this way and that

how gratifying the cellos of the river

the tubas of the traffic

the trombones

of the leafing elms with the legato

of my rivals’ piss at their feet

and the leftover meat and grease

singing along in all the wastebaskets

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Flowing cold water on Spring’s arrival

Each year I’m surprised by how long it takes snow to melt once temperatures start to creep above freezing. This year is no different. I don’t expect it to all disappear at once, but the roof is still covered by more than a foot of snow in some places, even though the sun is shining and the temperature is in the low to mid forties. There’s a helpful explanation here. The USDA has made available a whole hydrology chapter on snow melt here.

we’re still well above the snow depth of Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

I know that several places in Minnesota keep track of when local lakes experience ice-in and ice-out. Minnesota is also known for having experienced snow 11 months of the year. The Department of Natural Resources tracks snow depth and ranking. Our winter so far has been more snowy than average.

A slow snow melt lessens the likelihood of flooding but impending spring has me anxious to get out wading and walking again. Wading becomes more challenging as rivers and streams approach bankfull conditions. We also remember to leave the lightweight waders in the closet until late May or some time in June. Neoprene is much warmer in cold water.

A week from now we may regain several inches of snow cover, making up for at least some of what we’ll lose over the next few days. Or, the forecast may change. What won’t change is the persistent, relentless increase in heating degree days as the sun continues to climb higher in the sky for more hours per day. Soon spring’s youthfulness will vanquish an aging winter.

[the snow is melting]

By Kobayashi Issa
Translated by Robert Hass

The snow is melting 

and the village is flooded 

      with children.

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What’s in a life?

Today is the last day of our 36th year of marriage, Tomorrow, we celebrate our 37th anniversary. I suspect it will be a quiet celebration. We’ll have dinner with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law and Granddaughter and be grateful for the good time and wonderful company.

Irish soda bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Since I lost track of a package of Irish soda bread last March, I’ll bake a loaf for breakfast tomorrow, with hopes that it will continue to bring us the “luck o’ the Irish.” What else we may do during the day will depend, in large part, on the weather, especially temperatures and precipitation.

It’s not often I acknowledge that anything turns out better than I expected. Much of that has to do with my refusal to lower my expectations despite an obvious, and continuing, inability to modify the world to suit my taste. I hereby acknowledge that the past 36 years have been better than expected and much of that is despite my meddling. Fortunately, every once in awhile I have a moment of lucidity that enables me to realize just how lucky I am. Today’s posting is evidence of one such moment. May each and everyone of you reading this be as fortunate.

Anniversary

By Cecilia Woloch

Didn’t I stand there once,

white-knuckled, gripping the just-lit taper,

swearing I’d never go back?

And hadn’t you kissed the rain from my mouth?

And weren’t we gentle and awed and afraid,

knowing we’d stepped from the room of desire

into the further room of love?

And wasn’t it sacred, the sweetness

we licked from each other’s hands?

And were we not lovely, then, were we not

as lovely as thunder, and damp grass, and flame?

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A few thawghts about Spring

 Next week is shaping up to be verrry interesting!

• Sunday: Daylight Savings begins
• Thursday: St. Patrick’s Day
• All week: Spring thaw

Weather Underground extended forecast

Look at the extended forecast high temperature jump from Saturday [24℉] to Sunday [41℉] to Wednesday [51℉]. We’ll soon be able to take off the Yak Traks for walking the ice-covered drive and replace them with Wellingtons. It’s starting to look as though what passes for spring around here may actually arrive on or about the Equinox.

In honor and anticipation of the impending change of seasons, we took the dogs to the vets for their annual visit and meds to prevent fleas, ticks, heartworms, etc. My SiSi was excessively exuberant while the Better Half’s Harry the Beagle, first time at this vet, was nervous but mellow. Both dogs are looking forward to snow melt so they can get more time to play in their run without freezing paws and stuff.

I’m getting excited about seeing open water and the return of the geese, cranes and red-winged blackbirds. In the interim, the double quince stems seem very slow to show budburst. We hope next week’s weather will encourage the flowers to overcome their shyness and begin to open. I’m starting to get giddy at the prospect of the world coming vibrantly alive again.

Mid-March

By Lizette Woodworth Reese

It is too early for white boughs, too late 

For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall 

A few last flakes, ragged and delicate. 

Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, 

Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks 

A rich and deepening red. The willow tree 

Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks 

The lean bush crouching hints old royalty, 

Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows 

Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose. 

The days go out with shouting; nights are loud; 

Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold; 

The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold, 

Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.

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Adjusting to Spring

Roadside grass blades emerge and grow taller. American goldfinch males are turning breeding season colors. Day lily leaves extend several inches above ground. Last night's thunder storms brought a limited amount of needed moisture. They also made our dog, SiSi, very nervous. We spent much time and energy  last night providing reassurance.

More rain is due off and on for the rest of the week. Is this really Springtime in the North Country, or are we headed toward a temperature drop and snowfall next week? Stay tuned.

early spring day lilies

Photo by J. Harrington

It pains us, literally, to admit it but our senior sedentariness all winter long has left us in terrible shape to take on spring chores. Our compulsive approach of wanting to "get it all done and be finished" isn't much help. Don't be surprised if sometime soon you see a posting here that's simply a repetition 500 times of "Seasonal chores are a daily process, not a one time event." We need to be reminded that chores are like eating a meal. It should be done it several times each day, not just cramming in required calories once a week or month.

Spring Thunder

Mark Van Doren - 1894-1972

Listen. The wind is still,
And far away in the night—
See!  The uplands fill 
With a running light. 

Open the doors.  It is warm;
And where the sky was clear —
Look!  The head of a storm
That marches here!

Come under the trembling hedge—
Fast, although you fumble. . . . 
There!  Did you hear the edge
Of winter crumble?

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Dredging up river words

Earlier today I came across a nice, albeit limited [7 words], Glossary of River Words, put together by Merriam-Webster. I know from my own education, training and experience there are more than seven river words, so I got curious about what else might there be. Internet searching revealed that the National Wild and Scenic Rivers web site lacks a glossary of river words, although it does have one for federal acronyms etc. It also has a nice section of River and Environmental Quotations, but I find their interface lacking, to put it mildly.

St. Louis River in Jay Cooke State Park

Photo by J. Harrington

I had higher hopes for the American Rivers web site, but those hopes were dashed. No glossary there that I could find. A United Kingdom site has an expanded (much more than seven words) River Glossary that's part of an overarching "Homework Help" site. The United States Geological Survey has an "unofficial" Dictionary of Water Terms that is both technical and expansive.

Based on very quick reviews, the glossaries I found seemed to lack a number of synonyms for river, such as:

    estuary

    stream

    tributary

    beck

    branch

    brook

    course

    creek

    rill

    rivulet

    run

    runnel

    watercourse

While wandering the backwaters of the internet, looking for resources for this posting on river terms, I fell into a fly fishing glossary, on which I'm now hooked. But, for a very different and fascinating perspective, take a look at the sidebar and follow the link to The Meaning of Water. It's worth the trip.

Locally, see if you can lay your hands on a copy of Thomas F. Waters' The Streams and Rivers of Minnesota, and / or his Wildstream: A Natural History of the Free Flowing River.

If you've read this far, you probably figured out that Norman Maclean is not the only one "haunted by waters."

River

By Mary Oliver

The river

Of my childhood,

That tumbled

Down a passage of rocks

And cut-work ferns,

Came here and there

To the swirl

And slowdown

Of a pool

And I say myself–

Oh, clearly–

As I knelt at one–

Then I saw myself

As if carried away,

As the river moved on.

Where have I gone?

Since then

I have looked and looked

For myself,

Not sure

Who I am, or where,

Or, more importantly, why.

It’s okay–

I have had a wonderful life.

Still, I ponder

Where that other is–

Where I landed,

What I thought, what I did,

What small or even maybe meaningful deeds

I might have accomplished

Somewhere

Among strangers,

Coming to them

As only a river can–

Touching every life it meets–

That endlessly kind, that enduring.

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Accepting imperfection

In my younger days, decades ago, I sometimes drove to Idaho in the Summer. At the time I had in-laws who Summered in Rexburg, ID. It took some research and adjustment to recognize that about this time of year snowmelt still had many Idaho trout streams high and discolored. It wasn't until July or later that the flows moderated to "fishable" conditions.

these flies still need to get wet

Photo by J. Harrington

As today's posting is being written, about 25 or 50 miles+/- East or West in a storm track stands between us, our local trout streams (the ones we've been trying to get to for weeks now), and either about .25 inches or 3 to 5 inches of rain tonight and tomorrow. Rain in the higher amounts may well despoil local fishing for a week or two, or more.

a trout stream at a fishable level

Photo by J. Harrington

Fortunately, I'm once again in a mode of studying wabi sabi, a world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection.  I'm hoping any serious imperfections in the fishability of our trout streams will be transient. (I know that's not how it's "supposed" to work, but, if the sandal fits, ....) Thursday, Friday, and the upcoming weekend look to offer ideal weather. I hereby commit to fitting in at least two trips, even if brief and imperfect, between now and Monday, the Ides of June. If I'm successful, there will be some photos of at least one stream. Any trout photos will be  icing on a cake yet to be baked.

In lieu of our usual poem, please accept the following as one of the better prose poems ever written by a fisherman. Background on the poem and its author can be found here.

Testament of a Fisherman

I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly. Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape. Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing what they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion. Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed, or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility, and endless patience. Because I suspect that men are going this way for the last time and I for one don’t want to waste the trip. Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters. Because in the woods I can find solitude without loneliness. … And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant and not nearly so much fun.

— Robert Traver, Anatomy of a Fisherman

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April springs forth on the fourth

We get our first Spring Greens CSA share in about a month (May 1). We'll be splitting the contents with the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law, else there'd be way to much food wasted. The weekly drive to the pick-up location takes me through some of the prettier areas in our extended neighborhood, so it will be a weekly "chore" that I enjoy and a valid excuse to not #Stay-At-Home.

Meanwhile, back here in early April, this morning's temperature was 20℉. By early afternoon the temperature had barely climbed to 32℉. As shade disappears, the sun's direct warmth is enough to melt last night's snow cover. By mid-week we're anticipating nearing 70℉. I'm not sure how our native plants handle these temperature swings through the thaw-freeze-thaw cycles but the emergence of renewed life continues, albeit slowly. Although the maple buds have swollen noticeably and local streams and rivers are now running bankfull +, but not as full as last year, there's still no indication the oak buds have noticed the longer days and increased temperatures. Meanwhile, waves of robins and starlings are moving North.

last Spring: bankfull and then some

Photo by J. Harrington

No, we haven't yet made our inspection trip to see if the skunk cabbage has emerged. (Refer above to warmer days next week.) The combination of incompetence (at best) in the nation's capital, cloudy, damp, depressing weather, and the coronavirus news has enhanced the gloom and doom around here to the point that Eeyore looks like an  optimist. We've spent too much time avoiding brisk, cold winds, spitting rains and reading  social media. If, after enjoying some newfound warmth, we don't slip backwards too much, perhaps we'll be better able to appreciate new and improved conditions. We did enjoy this morning's cloud wrapped, waxing gibbous moon. Look for a pink, super moon in a few days, on April 7.

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

For more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

-Mary Oliver

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As color returns #phenology

Slowly, ever so, entirely too, slowly, ice cover on the Sunrise River is diminishing. Puddles or stretches of open water are appearing along the river's West Bank as the river flows northerly. At no place is there yet a stretch of water open from bank to bank, but a promise of such things to come raises hope, especially if we reach mid-fifties or sixty this weekend. Winter's icy grip loosens, but has not yet released us to enjoy, unfettered, Springtime's delights.

red dogwood brightens a Spring floodplain

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we got out onto the flood plain marshes and collected a handful of red osier dogwood twigs. In the process, we clomped (technical term) through a couple of snowbanks that are still almost knee deep. That's when we learned that our LL Bean boots were just loose enough at  the top to permit entry of about half a cup of large ice crystals. This may be why we  wore hip boots the last time we were clomping and tromping around this particular marsh at this time of year. Still, we emptied the ice crystals when we  got home and before most of them had melted. No harm, no foul, and the Bean boots are more comfortable than hippers. Yes, Virginia, it did feel good to get out 'splorin'!

soon local skunk cabbages will emerge

Photo by J. Harrington

We can now examine leaf buds on the dogwood branches and the beach plum plants to look for signs of leaf buds coming to life. Before bud burst, buds slightly swell as juices return to a flowing state. The plums have maintained their autumn state of two plants keeping green leaves all Winter and two plants dropping all their leaves. When we looked a day or so ago, as we watered them, there didn't seem to be any signs of new life arising yet. Except, possibly, for the week before Christmas, does any season of the year hold more promise than Spring? By this time next week, skunk cabbage may have begun to emerge and wetlands may be covered in liquid rather than crystalline waters.

In cold spring air

Reginald Gibbons

In cold 
          spring air the
white wisp- 
          visible
breath of 
          a blackbird
singing— 
          we don’t know
to un- 
          wrap these blind-
folds we 
          keep thinking
we are 
          seeing through

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Going with the flow #phenology

I was feeling bad about the condition of our ice-skating-rink driveway until this morning, when I drove down our local road onto the similarly slick ice-covered gravel section in Chisago City. Let's hope that the continuing signs that an early Spring may reach us are accurate and that once again melting begins. We don't need a heat wave, just temperatures consistently reaching above freezing for an extended period. As an alternative, this being the North Country, a half inch or so of snow, to provide better traction than the ice, would also improve the situation. Last night I drove the tractor down the drive to get the mail. The tractor is much less likely to slip, fall, and break something important while traversing ice.

source: USA National Phenology Network, www.usanpn.org

Snow-cover in the fields and woods has crusted enough to support squirrel-sized critters but probably presents discomfort and, maybe, difficulties for deer. I'm not sure about coyotes, since our dogs usually follow their own tamped-down paths I've not noticed whether the crust holds them or if they break through.

male downy woodpecker at suet feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

There's still no signs of goldfinches at the feeder, nor, recently, pileated woodpeckers at the suet. Hairy, downy, and red-bellied are regular visitors. There were reports on social media within the past week that bald eagles that have been wintering in Iowa had started to return North. This is a great time of year for me to learn to develop my patience muscles, although it's only a little more than three weeks until meteorological Spring. North Country Spring is more often tardy than early so, in anticipation, I need to plan a visit to a local fly shop and take a drive to see some open, flowing water.

Speaking of which, in recognition that February is Black History Month, here's a poem about flowing water written by one of my favorite poets.

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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Home waters

Today we [the Better Half and I] took an exploratory, reconnoitering trip to take a peek at some waters we hope to fish next year. In the process, we visited a new fly shop and a book store we've wanted to check out for some time. We did a lot of driving through some pretty farm country and found a handful of places we're looking forward to seeing again. In the process, we came across a spot I used to fish 25 or 30 years ago. It hadn't changed much but lots of the country around it has, not all for the better. Nevertheless, the stream we reconnoitered today is where I learned most of my fly fishing for trout. It's as close as I come in the Midwest to having home waters.

open water in Winter is a treat to watch

Photo by J. Harrington

It felt good to get out and poke around, especially since we may end up spending the "better part(?)" of the weekend indoors, seeking, as Dylan wrote, Shelter from the Storm. If the forecast is close to accurate, the brunt of the snow will fall North and West of us but we may get more ice than is good for us. Stay tuned. In any event, come Spring it will all melt and flow into rivulets and creeks and streams and rivers and, eventually, with evaporate or return to an ocean, sea or gulf. All waters are part of the same world-wide flow. Actually, I like the way Norman Maclean expressed it, ending A River Runs Through It:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”

May your next year be full of joy and health and, frequently, lines tight with what you pursue with love hooked on the other end.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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Return of the neighborhood beaver(s)?

Many, many years ago, we first moved into our house in early December. It wasn't until the following Spring that we discovered we had a beaver or beavers for neighbors. There was no classic beaver mound house, he, she, or they lived in a den in the bank of the flowage, on the West side of the township road. We enjoyed the company and the tail-slapping antics for a year or two and then s/he or they were gone. Our suspicion is it was a male beaver trying to establish a new territory in a not-very-promising location.

West-side flowage pond, beaver den was in left bank

Photo by J. Harrington

Last week we noticed a pickup truck belonging to the county or township or watershed organization stopping repeatedly up the road from our house, just where the flowage crosses under the road. On one of those occasions, we drove past and saw someone with a pry bar trying to disassemble what looks to us like a beaver damn on the East side of the road. Our suspicion is that the beaver(s) could repair the damage faster than one person with a pry bar could try to enhance what is at best a very slow flow, even during times of high water like this past Spring.

East-side flowage stream, dam is about between two trees on far bank

Photo by J. Harrington

Apparently, someone in officialdom was agitated enough by the new squatters in the flowage that the heavy equipment was brought or sent in. A large backhoe is now parked on the Northern flowage bank. Half the beaver dam has been removed and is now sitting on the Northern bank, and several vehicles have been stopping and parking for extended periods this week. We're not sure if they're watching a beaver, pondering what's left of the dam, or ....

With all that's malfunctioning and dysfunctioning in the world today, we're encouraged to see a return  of some of the areas native inhabitants. The flowage drains through the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area into the Sunrise River. We believe that beavers probably lived here when the land was inhabited by the Lakota and/or the Ojibwe. We suppose if it were our property that was being inundated by the waters behind a beaver dam, we might not be as welcoming. But it isn't, and, as far as we can tell, after having lived in the neighborhood for about a quarter of a century, we aren't aware of any normally dry land that's at risk from the new dam. We'll poke around some more and see what else we can learn about the dam, its creators and its likely future, plus, some day very soon we'll share some photos of the backhoe and what's left of the dam.

Man in Stream

Rosanna Warren- 1953-

You stand in the brook, mud smearing
your forearms, a bloodied mosquito on your brow,
your yellow T-shirt dampened to your chest
as the current flees between your legs,
amber, verdigris, unraveling
today’s story, last night's travail . . .

You stare at the father beaver, eye to eye,
but he outstares you—you who trespass in his world,
who have, however unwilling, yanked out his fort,
stick by tooth-gnarled, mud-clabbered stick,
though you whistle vespers to the wood thrush
and trace flame-flicker in the grain of yellow birch.

Death outpaces us. Upended roots
of fallen trees still cling to moss-furred granite.
Lichen smolders on wood-rot, fungus trails in wisps.
I wanted a day with cracks, to let the godlight in.
The forest is always a nocturne, but it gleams,
the birch tree tosses its change from palm to palm,

and we who unmake are ourselves unmade
if we know, if only we know
how to give ourselves in this untendered light.

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A bridge too far?

It's the time of year when we used to see lots of Canada geese along and about the road edge going through the Sunrise River pools in the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area. This year we've seen very few geese or their goslings. We're not sure why but we have a prime suspect. The water in the Sunrise pools has been unusually high all Summer, but we don't think that's the basic problem. The geese used to hang out along the shoulder and into the road near where the river flowed under the highway. We surmise that a few too many motorists had close, or too close, calls with a goose or geese.

Canada geese "roadside"

Photo by J. Harrington

Several years ago, the county replaced the bridge crossing the river and the conduits through which the river flowed. When they did that, they added very long stretches of guard rail, separating the roadway from most of the shoulder. The geese no longer hang out along that stretch of roadway and marsh. We can sort of understand that, but what leaves us scratching our head is why the geese didn't decide to congregate on the North side of the road, where there's still quite a bit of marsh and shoulder not separated by a guardrail.

bridge construction: bulleting board

Photo by J. Harrington

We admit that the new and improved road is probably safer for both motorists and geese, but we also admit we would have much preferred to see a lower speed limit and a "goose crossing" sign instead.

The Bridge Builder

By Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man going a lone highway,

Came, at the evening cold and gray,

To a chasm vast and deep and wide.

Through which was flowing a sullen tide

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,

The sullen stream had no fear for him;

But he turned when safe on the other side

And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,

“You are wasting your strength with building here;

Your journey will end with the ending day,

You never again will pass this way;

You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,

Why build this bridge at evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head;

“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,

“There followed after me to-day

A youth whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm that has been as naught to me

To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;

Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

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