Spring IS here!

Well before any hint of dawn this morning, the dogs were walking me along the road and I heard an owl call. It didn’t call my name, but instead asked: “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” Later, in the pale, gray, pre-dawn, at the ecotone where the woods transitioned to fog-filled fields behind the house, a pair of ghost deer floated by as I was hanging the bird feeder. All-in-all, one of the better starts to a day than we’ve enjoyed in some time.

barred ow perched in an oak tree

Photo by J. Harrington

And still later, as we headed off to do some errands, we saw a flock of about a dozen or so pelicans circling near, but not over, the Sunrise river pools near Hwy 36 in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area. As we were returning home, a couple of frogs were hopping across Hwy 19. Signs of Spring have become abundant.

Yesterday a tom turkey was gobbling for awhile. At lease I think it was a real turkey, since the hunting season doesn’t open until April 17, a week from today.

If you have any siblings, today is the day to wish them “Happy Siblings Day!!” If you don’t have  siblings, please accept our condolences.

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard

by Mary Oliver

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids -
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder -
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear -

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aliminum
ladder of his scream -
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns, 

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its house of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine. 

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Will April Fool’s weather last all month?

Yesterday evening we saw dragonflies hovering over the backyard wet spot that is now snow and ice free. Some plants in the front flower garden are emerging through the leaf mulch. In the quarter century we’ve lived here, I’ve never seen as many “gopher” mounds and tunnels as there are this spring. I’ll knock them down next week with the drag harrow. I can’t pull the harrow with the back blade still on the tractor and we don’t want to tempt fate by taking the back blade off with snow in Sunday’s forecast (despite today’s 80+℉).

While watching the dragonflies, we heard a number of frogs making different sounds. In fact it was because we went out onto the deck to hear the frogs that we saw the dragonflies. I’m not sure but we may also have observed a bluebird. While putzing about the yard today I closed the door to the back bluebird house. [Writing that reminded me to go close the door on the front yard house. That’s done and as we finished, we noticed a lot of day lily plants just beginning to emerge.]

emerging day lilies April 15, 2020

Photo by J. Harrington

Reports are that local rivers may crest over the weekend. It’s not clear if anyone’s factoring in the precipitation we’re expecting on top of the snow melt flows. This April’s weather qualifies for an “All of the above and other” award. I don’t recall any other April in which I’ve managed to get myself overheated before mid-month whille outside doing not much of anything.

In April

James Hearst

This I saw on an April day:
Warm rain spilt from a sun-lined cloud,
A sky-flung wave of gold at evening,
And a cock pheasant treading a dusty path
Shy and proud.


And this I found in an April field:
A new white calf in the sun at noon,
A flash of blue in a cool moss bank,
And tips of tulips promising flowers
To a blue-winged loon.


And this I tried to understand
As I scrubbed the rust from my brightening plow:
The movement of seed in furrowed earth,
And a blackbird whistling sweet and clear
From a green-sprayed bough.

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In search of better days

It’s the time of year when Agastache foeniculum (Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop) comes into its own in our neighborhood. It’s difficult to impossible to see in the photo below, but our plants are literally crawling with small bumblebees. It’s a treat to see pollinators this year. Monarchs have been very few and very, very far between.

Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop (Agastache foeniculum)

Photo by J. Harrington

Early mornings after a rainy evening or night, walking the dogs is accompanied by a chorus of frog chirps. We’ve not seen any frogs in person yet this summer. Occasionally, a tiny toad will appear somewhere in the yard, like the one that hopped under the brush pile as I mowed past on the tractor the other day. Most summers we’ve been visited by one or two green tree frogs by now. Another piece of what seems like a strange summer this year.

If somehow you’ve missed the memo, Minnesota’s state fair opened today. In the decades we’ve lived here we’ve been only two or three times and, I believe, two of them were work related. Compound my natural aversion to large, unwieldy crowds with my stronger aversion to potentially deadly viruses and pandemics, and you can be sure we won’t be going this year either.

One of the nice aspects of a subprime summer such as the one we’re closing out is that it doesn’t take a whole heck of a lot to really improve things. We realize there are lots of folks who are in much worse shape than we are, at least at the moment, but this summer has seen too much time expended on things that need to get done and not enough on things we want to do. We’re looking forward to falling into a better pattern next month, or, at least shaking off our funky mood. We are definitely overdue for a day or two or three of fishing and apple picking eating.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

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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Mid-April #phenology

 I finally remembered to close one of the “bluebird” bird houses. After posting this I’ll go close the one behind the house and raise the purple martin / tree swallow house. It’s time for arrivals, despite a snow forecast for this upcoming Thursday.

early April, bluebird

Photo by J. Harrington

In fact, Here’s the Nature Notes for the week ahead, from the Weatherguide Calendar:

Sunny, warm days will bring out leopard frogs, painted turtles, garter snakes, and both Compton tortoise shell and mourning cloak butterflies that hibernated through the winter as adults. Wood frogs make barking calls and western chorus frogs sound like metallic clickers; both are very vocal. Ice covers leave central Minnesota lakes. Male ruffed grouse begin drumming in northeastern Minnesota.

Now, we’re likely to be short the sunny, warm days for awhile still, but we can anticipate and eagerly await the forthcoming events. Ponds north of our property are less and less covered by skim ice these mornings. The patches of remaining ice/snow are fewer and smaller by the day. We’ve been watching turkey vultures spiral northwards for a couple of days now. Every once in awhile we’ll get to watch or hear a goose of crane as it flies over the house. Even I might begin to accept an inevitability of improving weather, some day.

April Chores

by Jane Kenyon

When I take the chilly tools

from the shed's darkness, I come

out to a world made new

by heat and light.

The snake basks and dozes

on a large flat stone.

It reared and scolded me

for raking too close to its hole.

Like a mad red brain

the involute rhubarb leaf

thinks its way up

through loam.

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'Hoppy' Amphibian Week! #phenology

According to the amphibian foundation, amphibian week began yesterday. The U.S. Park Service joins in the celebration. While working on this year's spring plantings yesterday, in the pots next to the stoop, the Better Half got a startle when she dug up a toad, which was relocated promptly to the leaf-covered flower garden nearby. Perhaps it was a sign to alert us to amphibian week.

The first week in May is a prime time for many of our local amphibians to breed, according to the calendar (above) from a habitat guide once part of Trout Unlimited's Driftless Area Restoration Effort, undertaken with a number of partners.

Photo by J. Harrington

The first week in May is also prime time for tom turkeys to strut and display and gobble and try to breed hens. This morning we watched one do his best with the two hens he was following through the field behind the house. From what we could see, they were having none of it, or him. Perhaps they wanted more privacy.

It must be close to summer. We practically can't get out of our neighborhood, due to construction on a handful of roads in the area. City, and state and/or county are all actively blocking passage and failing to do much to post actual detours. The signs either state "road construction ahead," usually well past an option to take an alternate route, or "road closed. use alternate route," without giving a hint of where  or what such an alternate route might be.

The Frog

By Hilaire Belloc

Be kind and tender to the Frog,

   And do not call him names,

As ‘Slimy skin,’ or ‘Polly-wog,’

   Or likewise ‘Ugly James,’

Or ‘Gape-a-grin,’ or ‘Toad-gone-wrong,’   

   Or ‘Billy Bandy-knees’:

The Frog is justly sensitive

   To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay

   A treatment kind and fair;

At least so lonely people say

Who keep a frog (and, by the way,   

They are extremely rare).

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Frog concert time #phenology

Last night the Better Half noticed a chorus of peepers and wood frogs. After she told me about it, I stepped onto the deck and heard Spring's first frogs in Minnesota's East Central North Country. Frog mating "songs" may have been heard earlier elsewhere [the calendar is based on the Driftless Area], but Springsong croaked last night in our neighborhood.

Several years ago we were surprised and delighted to discover a tree frog on the screen porch screens on March 30th. It seemed very early but that year was probably warmer than usual. Today's temperatures are about half of what yesterday's were and the "breezes" are even stronger. Tomorrow, temperature-wise, March will leave like a lion (cub) with highs just barely above freezing. Then it's an April Fool's joke with more cold and Spring finally returns by week's end. We are truly looking forward to the kind of weather that's actually a pleasure to be out in. Maybe the end of windchill season will settle for April 1st this year. That'd be nice and we bet the frogs would enjoy not getting covered by skim ice each night, too.

March 30: tree frog on screen

Photo by J. Harrington

Frog. Little Eden.

By Wendy Battin

Amphibious, at home

on the surface

tension, in

over my head, not

out of my depth, not deep

deep deep,

not in far. Not

high and dry, not

even in treetops,

where I sing water

into the root-hairs.

It seeks me, will not

forsake me.

Hand over hand it climbs.

It breaks

the first law of water,

all for my song.

Into the trunk and up, it greens

the leaves that the leaves may be

-emerald me.

The leaves breathe it out and I drink,

then sing

lest the water forget to rise

and the world be kindling.

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It's the start of spring phenology season

Our morning's snow is typical for this time of year in the North Country, but it triggered a small setback in our gradually brightening outlook. That's when we remembered Greta Kaul's delightful An illustrated guide to the signs of Minnesota spring. It begins with maple sap flowing around mid-March but notes the earliest observation was on today's date in 1987 and the latest start was only the year prior, 1986. We suppose if the weather and climate and phenological observations all occurred on or about their average date, we'd start complaining about boredom.

By late March, we should be able to enjoy the mating chorus(es) of wood frogs, boreal chorus frogs, spring peepers and Northern leopard frogs. A handful of salamanders may also have begun breeding, presuming we've lost most of our snow cover by then. Just anticipating the return of spring noises and activities makes us feel better.

The hyacinths in the downstairs window well are looking ok and the crocuses on the dining room table upstairs are coming into bloom. There's no way either of these plants would be rising through our current snows so we'll hope to enjoy them twice this year, now and in late April or early May in folks' yards?

two of our three male cardinals

Photo by J. Harrington

The other day we finally managed to get a picture of two of the three male cardinals that are hanging around. This morning we noticed one of the males was chasing another. Signs of spring and mating season no doubt. Time to defend territories. The whiteish dragonflies in the picture are decals on the walkout glass. Part of an effort to keep birds from flying into our windows (and doors).

Spring

by Mary Oliver

Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring

I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue

like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:

how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else

my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her -—
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.

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Plan your vote, then vote your plan!

First the important news: our early voting ballots have arrived. We (the Better Half plus your friendly local blogger) will soon fill them out and then either mail them or return them in person when one of us goes to pay the second half of this year's property taxes. Some of us (no naming names) had been getting concerned that the ballots hadn't arrived "yet" but that's because, until recently, we had been spoiled by timely mail delivery.

The morning's rain has moved on. Fluffy clouds and sunshine, and autumnal warmth, now prevail. This is the kind of afternoon we should can or bottle and stock up on for late January and February. Female ruby-throated hummingbirds are still visiting the sugar water feeders. Leaf color on the local maple trees is rapidly increasing . A week ago the tree to the right showed almost no color and the one on the left had only a small patch of orange/red showing. Sometimes changes are incremental; others they are sudden and radical.

local maples showing more color

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night at full dark, much later than usual, we brought the bird feeders in. That's when we noticed, perched in the bird bath, illuminated by the deck light, a gray tree frog. S/he's someone else that one day will disappear for the winter. According to the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources:

Some gray treefrogs spend the winter in a partially frozen state under leaf litter, rocks and logs. People often see them on windows on summer evenings where the frogs feed on bugs attracted to the lights inside.

 

gray tree frog in night-time bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

Most Minnesota winters yours truly often feels partially frozen himself but that's a different story I suppose, since I don't have to wait until spring to thaw out. We believe last night this frog found the bird bath an acceptable autumnal substitute for hanging out on a window.

The mums we planted along the North side of the drive seem to have survived the transplant trauma rather well. We'll see about some pictures next week since some of plants haven't yet developed a full crown of flowers. 'Tis a season of change we're enjoying and many of us hope it will lead to a radical change.

America

Florence Earle Coates - 1850-1927

Patient she is—long-suffering, our Land;
   Wise with the strength of one whose soul is calm
Weights and considers, and would understand
   Ere it gives way to anger: fearing wrong
Of her own doing more than any planned
   Against her peace by others deemed more strong.

Mother of many children alien born,
   Whom she has gathered into her kind arms—
Safe-guarding most the weakest, most forlorn,—
   The mother’s patience she has learned to know,
Which passes trifles by with smiling scorn—
   The mother’s hopefulness, to anger slow.

Yet, oh, beware! nor, over-bold, presume
   Upon a gentleness enlinked with Power!
Her torch still burns, to kindle or consume,
   And ’gainst the time when she must prove her might,
Vast energy is stored in her soul’s room—
   Undreamed of strength to battle for the Right!

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This frog wasn't in my throat

 This is the weekend for herps. Yesterday we posted about our adventure with a snapping turtle hatchling. Early this morning, while SiSi was feeding her face and I prepared for our early walk, with the Better Half and her dog were still sleeping, I noticed, to my surprise, a gray tree frog on the kitchen counter. As I went to grab it and put it outside, it leapt to the floor and then, as I reached again, it jumped over my hand. By now, SiSi was anxious to get outside and  take care of some pressing business. I left the frog to its own devices.

tree frog on deck railing

Photo by J. Harrington

Ten minutes or so later, SiSi and I returned. By now, I had enough sense, even without my first cup of coffee, to have collected my clear plastic cup and piece of thin cardboard that I use to capture spiders and moths. (Fishing nets serve for birds and bats that find their way into the house.) This time the frog was squatting near the middle of the kitchen floor. I stealthily placed the cup over the frog and then slid the cardboard under the cup. The frog was now entrapped and transportable to the bird bath on the deck. I went back to the kitchen and poured my coffee. SiSi pointed out that her water dish was empty.

I suspect that the ability of a frog to breach the walls of our fortress is on my shoulders. Last night, as I was bringing in the bird feeders, I left the walkout door to the deck open. That's probably when the frog hopped in. Fortunately, neither dog noticed it for herding or snacking purposes.

Later this morning, what I believe is the same frog was back climbing up the walkout sliding glass door. I shooed it away. It's probably lurking under the bird bath again, waiting to see if I slip up again this evening.

The Tree-Frog Pedigree

by John B. Tabb

Our great ancestor, Polly Wog,
With her cousin, Thaddeus Pole,
Eloped from her home in an Irish bog,
And crossing the sea on the "Mayflower's" log,
At the risk of body and soul,
Married a Frog; and thus, you see,
How we come by a place in the family-tree
And the family name, Tree-frog.

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Yes, Virginia, there is some good news!

 Common milkweed leaves are turning yellow as seed pods form. Ripe cherries drop from a black cherry tree. Some hummingbirds, probably juveniles, still visit sugar water feeders. "Tumblegrass" inflorescence are blown across local fields and pastures. Meteorological Autumn begins one week from today.

gray tree frog in bird  bath

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning a gray tree frog greeted me from the birdbath as I rehung the bird feeders. I can't begin to surmise why a tree frog would be interested in climbing up onto the deck to find a birdbath in which to become immersed, although other years we've found tree frogs in the shaded spaces under the birdbath, where it's attached to the railing. That may be where s/he spends days, hiding from birds. We'd never have suspected had we not been clumsy one time when we were cleaning and refilling the bowl.

common milkweed seed pods

Photo by J. Harrington

We may not wait until Meteorological Autumn to cut the grass, but cutting will be deferred until the heat and humidity have declined, maybe this weekend when the RNC has finished?  I'm sure I'm not the first to note that it would be really great if we could find a beneficial, productive, use for all the hot air generated by political speeches.

I'm planning to spend the afternoon in the cool, air conditioned house carefully reading a recent report from Trout Unlimited [TU], on the topic of critical minerals, responsible mining, and fishing, and people. Perhaps some of the paradigms from western states could prove to be helpful in Minnesota. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area is prominent in the report's description of "Special Places" and known critical minerals deposits. I'm particularly curious to see how the Tenets for Responsible Critical Mineral Development and the Best Practices compare to the guidance and requirements established by the Initiative for Responsible Mining Assurance. The publication of TU's Critical Minerals report at about the same time that a decision the Pebble Mine's permit has been delayed until a mitigation plan has been submitted almost gives me hope for a future that includes sane, rational, scientifically-based decision making in the mining industry and the agencies that regulate it. With luck, we'll survive such a shock.

Today’s News

By David Tucker

A slow news day, but I did like the obit about the butcher   

who kept the same store for fifty years.   People remembered   

when his street was sweetly roaring, aproned   

with flower stalls and fish stands.   

The stock market wandered, spooked by presidential winks,   

by micro-winds and the shadows of earnings.   News was stationed   

around the horizon, ready as summer clouds to thunder--    

but it moved off and we covered the committee meeting   

at the back of the statehouse, sat around on our desks,   

then went home early.   The birds were still singing,   

the sun just going down.   Working these long hours,   

you forget how beautiful the early evening can be,   

the big houses like ships turning into the night,   

their rooms piled high with silence.

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Some mysteries of country living

I don't know what happened to the Northern Plains Blazing Star we planted six or seven years ago. It's disappeared from the thick fringe around the wet spot in our back yard. I don't believe I inadvertently mowed it, but that's a possibility. Just today I noticed that three of the swamp milkweed plants are in bloom, but the Blazing Star disappearance is a mystery.

monarch butterflies on Northern Plains  Blazing-star

Photo by J. Harrington

A different mystery that got solved today is the whereabouts of the woodchuck that disappeared a couple of days ago. It is indeed the varmint that's been tunneling along the house's foundation behind the garage. Today  it appeared on the deck causing great perturbation among the dogs. Whatever prompted her or him to tunnel next to the house I don't know. There's lots of open, sandy fields with room for a burrow where someone who needs to prevent a nuisance animal from doing property damage might be more inclined to live and let live. As it is, there's already further damage done to an already deteriorating retaining wall and, if the wall lets go, it will further bury the septic tank so the project  of repairing, or more likely replacing, the retaining wall has moved near the top of the priority list. We'll get that taken care of before we plant a wildflower garden in a partially shaded location between the retaining wall and the garage.

Yesterday, when we checked, the tree frog that had moved into the bluebird house wasn't there. Today, a frog, which we presume was the same one, was back in the house and had been joined by a hornet or wasp. They seemed to be keeping a respectful distance from one another as we gently closed the door.

The Mystery of the Hunt

By Michael McClure

It’s the mystery of the hunt that intrigues me,

                   That drives us like lemmings, but cautiously—

The search for a bright square cloud—the scent of lemon verbena—

                    Or to learn rules for the game the sea otters

                                      Play in the surf.

                  It is these small things—and the secret behind them

                                    That fill the heart.

                        The pattern, the spirit, the fiery demon

                                That link them together

                      And pull their freedom into our senses,

             The smell of a shrub, a cloud, the action of animals

         —The rising, the exuberance, when the mystery is unveiled.

                                 It is these small things

                   That when brought into vision become an inferno.

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A prince in disguise?

From time to time in these blog posts I've mentioned the "wet spot" in our back yard. In Spring-time it's full of frog choruses which, for the most part, sound cheerful. I'm not sure where, specifically, all those noisy anurans disappear to during the Summer, although we see gray treefrogs on the windows, screens and railings from time to time.

is a frog in a bird house like a cat in the hat?

Photo by J. Harrington

A day or so ago, I went to check the restored bluebird house, the one that someone had filled with twigs, to see if anyone else had started a nest. I was surprised to discover, inside the house, a treefrog. At the time I didn't have either a camera or cell phone with me. Today I checked again. It's not clear whether the frog was back in the bluebird house or still in the bluebird house. In either case, the frog is unlikely to be consuming many insects while ensconced in a bird house. I may have to consider an eviction action. The frog is large enough to consume deer flies but the fact that it mostly hunts at night probably means it doesn't help reduce that population very much. Which might also explain why this particular frog spends its days in a bluebird house. I wonder if current inhabitation by a frog would deter bluebirds from nesting. I also wonder if we humans know nearly enough to try to pick winners and losers in nature.

That's it for today, except for a brief report that much of the time I've been writing this, several hummingbirds and bees or yellowjackets have been chasing each other away from the "oriole" feeder. All of which triggers my parental reaction of "if you can't play nice together, I'll take away your toys until you learn to get along and take turns." But then, see the last sentence in the preceding paragraph.

The Frog

By Hilaire Belloc

Be kind and tender to the Frog,

   And do not call him names,

As ‘Slimy skin,’ or ‘Polly-wog,’

   Or likewise ‘Ugly James,’

Or ‘Gape-a-grin,’ or ‘Toad-gone-wrong,’   

   Or ‘Billy Bandy-knees’:

The Frog is justly sensitive

   To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay

   A treatment kind and fair;

At least so lonely people say

Who keep a frog (and, by the way,   

They are extremely rare).

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To translate a poem

Today comes very close to a 10 on the scale of delightful May days. The wild plum and some other bushes are in bloom. Roadsides and some pastures are full of dandelions in flower. On the drive to pick up today's CSA share we glimpsed what we think was a golden eagle. It was the kind of morning and journey to be captured in a poem, perhaps a haiku. (I've recently returned to reading more on wabi sabi, zen, and haiku.) Words and paintings and music are about all we have to capture special moments and feelings. To translate them into something that can be shared with others. Then again, Robert Frost has been quoted as saying "Poetry is what gets lost in translation." Ursula Le Guin has a more nuanced perspective:

Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else. What is the other text, the original? I have no answer. I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat… where in this metaphor they die and get canned and eaten in sandwiches.

Alternatively, in the highly enjoyable A Hundred White Daffodils, Jane Kenyon writes, on her translations of Anna Akhmatova's poems:

...Because it is impossible to translate with fidelity to form and to image, I have sacrificed form for image. Image embodies feeling, and this embodiment is perhaps the greatest treasure of lyric poetry. In translating, I mean to place the integrity of the image over all other considerations.

Over the past week or so, I've discovered we have three different translations of one of Bashō's most famous haiku. The variations and their sources are provided below. I think they illustrate quite well the significance changing a few words, or their arrangement, can have in translating an experience. or capturing an image. After reading the translations below (it won't take long) think about whether you have a preference for one particular version; consider if you lean more toward Frost's or Le Guin's perspective on translation (although without being able to read the original, I've no idea how to judge what may be lost). I find that one version feels to me much more poetical (haiku-ish?) than the other two. There's one image that works best for me. What about you?

could this be Bashō's "old pond?"

Photo by J. Harrington

The Haiku Handbook, How to Write, Teach, and Appreciate Haiku
William J. Higginson and Penny Harter

old pond…
a frog leaps in
water's sound

The Sound of Water, Haiku by Bashō, Buson, Issa, and Other Poets
Translated by Sam Hamill

At the ancient pond
a frog plunges into
the sound of water

Haiku, Classic Japanese Short Poems
Introduction written and poems translated by Hart Larrabee

An old pond—
the splash of
plunging frogs

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Some sounds of Spring #phenology

If we get some cold, rainy weather, I'll spend some time replicating the bar graph in this linked animation: Northwoods Frog Call Phenology. For now, you can use it to better understand who's chirruping in  your nearby wetlands. I find it heartening that there's still a chorus of frogs to listen to in the evenings.

treefrog

Photo by J. Harrington

Mornings these days are more and more full of birdsong, which prompted an unfortunate comment from the usually tolerant Better Half about the "racket." (Her patience has no doubt been worn thin by the time she's been spending listening to my rants about the consequences of the terminal stupidity displayed by more than 60 million members of the electorate a few years ago.) Anyhow, rose-breasted grosbeaks are back. Today we hung a grape jelly feeder for orioles. With luck scarlet tanagers will soon  stop by as they pass through this year.

male rose-breasted grosbeak

Photo by J. Harrington

I assume you've seen, heard, or read the reports on the hog processing plant COVID-19 hotspots. My dislike for concentrated animal feeding operations [CAFOs], combined with the coronavirus outbreaks in meatpacking plants, have prompted me to start a search for a local source of heritage pork that's been humanely raised. The Better Half concurs in trying this option, which is very helpful and allows me to avoid having to threaten to hold my breath until I turn blue. We've tried local producers through an on-line food hub and found the quality to be very uneven. That same issue arose a few years back when  we were regularly getting Bourbon Red heritage turkeys for Thanksgiving. The first couple of years they were great. Then, one year the bird was tough, stringy, and the flavor was off. The tradeoff between volatility in quality and consistent but industrial may make for some interesting eating and, perhaps, writing. If you have any thoughts about or experiences with heritage meats, please share them in the comments. Relocalizing our  food supply isn't going to be a walk in the park through the pasture, but I'm betting it will be worth it.

Frogs Eat Butterflies. Snakes Eat Frogs.
Hogs Eat Snakes. Men Eat Hogs.

Wallace Stevens - 1879-1955

It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,

That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
The breath of turgid summer, and
Heavy with thunder’s rattapallax,

That the man who erected this cabin, planted
This field, and tended it awhile,
Knew not the quirks of imagery,

That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
This somnolence and rattapallax,

Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves
While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.

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Life has frogs in its throat! #phenology

It / they started yesterday, or thereabouts. We can't tell if we're hearing gray treefrogs, Spring peepers, Boreal chorus frogs, wood frogs, or all of the  above plus other, but the peeping and chirruping has begun. The sounds are significant signs of Spring's arrival here at the Southern edge of the North Country. Mating calls follow emergence from a frozen habitat; precede mating, which  precedes egg laying, then tadpoles then more frogs; then another Autumn followed by another Winter.

gray treefrog on porch screen

Photo by J. Harrington

Frog calls are a delightful replacement for Winter's howling winds. The morning bird chorus is adding voices by the day. This all makes me think I'm overdue for an attitude adjustment. I have been spending way too much time worrying and fussing about things I can't control to the detriment of enjoying the things I can. According to much of the contents of my email inbox, the world is daily overrun by one crisis after another and signing a petition per crisis will take care of things, especially if an online signature is accompanied by a donation. Back in the mid-1960's, one of Minnesota's two Nobel Laureates in Literature, in his poem It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding), enumerates lists of factors that brought us to where we are today. The more things change, the more they…

dime-size green  treefrog

Photo by J. Harrington

The last line of Dylan's song: "But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only" points us back in time to the shores of

[An ancient pond!]

Matsuo Basho - 1643-1694

An ancient pond!
With a sound from the water
Of the frog as it plunges in.


                                              —Translation by William George Aston

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Autumn too is "mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful"

E.E. Cummings' poem about "mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful" refers to Spring time. Our experience suggests those conditions are available any time the ground isn't snow-covered and frozen solid. That experience is largely based on watching the low spot in our driveway over a number of years. At one time this afternoon there were five robins and two goldfinches in that low spot's mud puddle, created by recent rains. We have a [heated] "bird bath"attached to our deck rail. Yesterday one of the local frogs/toads (Can you tell which? Our guess is gray tree frog, but we've also seen several little toads recently.) took a swim in the bird bath attached to the deck railing.

a frog (or toad) in the bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

Most times birds drink from this bird bath. Only a couple of birds have been seen bathing in it over the years it's been there. Other times we've seen frogs, they've been hunkered under the bird bath, not swimming in it. Squirrels, mostly red ones, also seem to enjoy drinking from the bird bath. The mud puddle is a little shallower and has more gradual slopes toward the center than the bird bath. Perhaps that's why birds prefer the puddle for bathing, or, could it be the mud helps with lice removal? I doubt that we'll ever know. Almost every time I stop to think about it, it turns out that nature is much less orderly than I've been taught or would like to believe. Alternatively, I've an unusual ability to attract anomalous behavior from wild critters. A woodcock no less was observed (during Summer) bathing in an alternative configuration of the drive's mud puddle several years ago.

a woodcock bathing in the driveway's puddle

Photo by J. Harrington

Soon the frogs and toads will be embedded in mud for the Winter. Robins, at least many of them, will have migrated South. Many goldfinches help themselves to the feeders all Winter. Hummingbirds are still showing up and we think we saw a monarch butterfly yesterday. A few dragonflies are still in the air. Although an Urge for Going is beginning to affect many creatures, we've still several weeks (we hope) until serious migratory flights are underway. By then the local leaves should be approaching peak color and many folks will be getting ready to celebrate Halloween and/or Samhain. But let's not get too far ahead of the season. We're still a couple of weeks until the Autumnal Equinox, on September 23, when astronomical Autumn catches up with meteorological Autumn's September 1 start date in the Northern Hemisphere.

Said the Toad

By J. Patrick Lewis

I was really in a muddle

looking over a mud puddle

'cause I didn't have a paddle

or a twig to ride the reef.

But I said, Oh, fiddle-faddle,

this is just a little piddle

of a second fiddle puddle

so I saddled up a leaf.

I set sail on the puddle,

but I reached the muddy middle

and I rocked the leaf a little,

then I gave it all I had.

And I solved the mighty riddle

of the whole caboodle puddle

when I hopped up on the middle

of a beetle launching pad.

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Damping down Summer's spirits

Someone, or something, tipped over the recycling barrel last night. The top was still closed tight so there was no mess to pick up. The trash can, once it gets used, gets moved into the garage. That's inconvenient but less so than cleaning up the mess after a visit from the neighborhood bear. At least we continue to assume it's a bear and not raccoons. We doubt that a raccoon or two would have bent the hanger pole for the front of house bird feeder. That was the visit signature a week or so ago. Maybe it is time to consider adding a trail cam so we can see what, or who, is going on, if it's not too misty or foggy.

Summer: misty morning

Photo by J. Harrington

Early this morning the fields were full of mist, or, maybe it was ground fog. Windows stayed covered with condensation for most of the morning. We're not sure what left the "track" through the condensation shown below, but suspect it may have been a tree or gray frog. We're hopeful that today marks the peak of Summer's humidity and temperatures. Next week looks promising for getting some outdoor chores done, temperatures should be cooler and the dew point lower. All of which presumes we all make it safely through this afternoon's heat advisory and severe thunderstorm warnings.

whose track in the condensation covering the window?

Photo by J. Harrington

Those Summer Evenings

My father would, with a little squeak
and a shudder in the water pipes,
turn on the garden hose, and sprinkle
honeysuckle bushes clipped
to window height, so that later,
as we slept atop our rumpled sheets
with windows open to the scritch
of crickets, whatever breeze
might flirt its way between
our house and the neighbors’
would brush across the honeysuckle,
sweet and wet, and keep us cool.

– Ted Kooser, from Splitting an Order

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Froggie Went A-Courtin' #phenology

We didn't even know there was a National Frog Month until a day or two ago. It comes in April, which is fitting, as that's usually when the snow and ice melts; waters open; grounds unfreeze; and, frogs go a-courtin'. Both the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency and the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources have web pages full of facts about Minnesota's frogs, including pictures, recordings of calls and fascinating, off-beat items. One of the strangest "facts" we came across is the listing, on Bob Dylan's web site, of a complete(?) set of lyrics to the traditional English folk song, Froggie Went A-Courtin', listing Mr. Zimmerman's alter ego as the arranger.

wood frog(?) on screen door

Photo by J. Harrington

We all know (or should) about The Frog Prince and, according to one source, Aesop's The Scorpion and The Frog. A different source lists another eight of Aesop's fables that include frogs, but none also includes a scorpion.

green tree frog on hand rail

Photo by J. Harrington

Some time ago we found a description of many species of animals that benefit from stream restoration projects, such as those done by Trout Unlimited. Quite a few species of frogs are included. We were even more intrigued by the amphibian breeding phenology information provided in the report. Here's the chart:

The Frog

By Hilaire Belloc

Be kind and tender to the Frog,

   And do not call him names,

As ‘Slimy skin,’ or ‘Polly-wog,’

   Or likewise ‘Ugly James,’

Or ‘Gape-a-grin,’ or ‘Toad-gone-wrong,’   

   Or ‘Billy Bandy-knees’:

The Frog is justly sensitive

   To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay

   A treatment kind and fair;

At least so lonely people say

Who keep a frog (and, by the way,   

They are extremely rare).

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