Allee allee in free?!!

Today’s weather, and the state of the country’s and world’s politics, have me waxing nostalgic for times that at least seemed simpler and more sensible. It’s been raining and pouring intermittently all day. Dog walks have been scheduled between downpours but the dogs would prefer to wait until it’s dry so they can sniff better. Today’s “poem” takes me back to high school and college days, and before. I hope you enjoy it.

rain clouds overhead, and on the horizon?

Photo by J. Harrington

Our governor is reported to be one of the two remaining candidates for Madame President’s VP pick. I have mixed feelings about that. Minnesota’s loss being the nation’s gain, etc. The reality is it will be interesting to see what happens if he’s selected and we end up with a Native American woman as governor. I’ve just about reached a point where I believe we can survive almost anything but #45 becoming #47, or would that be #45a and b?

The last line in the lyrics below is how I remember ending hide and go seek games when I was a kid in Dorchester, a Boston neighborhood. My mother used to claim she could tell whose back yard I’d been playing in by the way I smelled. The phrasing differs from the Kingston Trio’s Ally Ally Oxen Free. I have no idea what may be the real etymology of the phrase. Do you?

It's Raining

Song by Peter, Paul and Mary

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

"hey I got an idea ... we could all play hide and go seek inside,

Now everybody hide and I'll be it!"

 

Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

Wish I may, wish I might,

Have the wish I wish tonight.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Five ten fifteen twenty.

Twenty-five thirty. thirty-five forty.

 

Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home.

Your house is on fire, and your children,

They will burn, they will burn.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Forty-five fifty. fifty-five sixty.

Sixty-five seventy. seventy-five eighty.

 

Won't be my father's jack,

No I won't be my mother's jill,

I'll be a fiddler's wife and fiddle when I will.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Eighty-five, ninety. ninety-five, a hundred.

 

anyone round my base is it! ready or not, here I come!

allee allee in free!

Songwriters: Allen Toussaint / Naomi Neville 

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Summer sightings of neighbors

A couple of bucks in velvet wandered across the far fields behind the house yesterday. I managed to get some pictures but not with both raising  their heads at the same time. Still haven't seen any fawns this Summer although the Daughter Person reports she and her spouse have seen a couple on their property.

two bucks in July velvet

Photo by J. Harrington

The Sunrise River pools near County  Highway 36 are very slowly receding to "normal" flow levels. This morning a great blue heron was standing still, neck retracted, looking for its next meal? A week or so ago the water was too deep for heron wading where it was standing today.

Down the road a couple of miles from our place, a red fox dashed across in front of the Jeep this morning, then stopped in a farm house yard to watch us drive past. We slowed to a stop and watched  back until s/he(?) got nervous and bolted off behind the barn. I'd like it a lot if we saw more foxes and/or vixens in the neighborhood.

While doing some outside chores this morning, I checked the bluebird house again to find that the green treefrog had reversed direction but otherwise was in about the same spot inside the house as s/he was a couple of days ago.

what is this? a wasp? what kind?

Photo by J. Harrington

I've not yet managed to identify what I think is some kind of wasp (long, black, needle-like ovipositor?) that was perched on the screens a day or two ago. If you have suggestions on where to look or what it is, feel free to leave a comment.

His Speed and Strength

Alicia Ostriker - 1937-

His speed and strength, which is the strength of ten
years, races me home from the pool.
First I am ahead, Niké, on my bicycle,
no hands, and the Times crossword tucked in my rack,
then he is ahead, the Green Hornet,
buzzing up Witherspoon,
flashing around the corner to Nassau Street.

At noon sharp he demonstrated his neat
one-and-a-half flips off the board:
Oh, brave. Did you see me, he wanted to know.
And I doing my backstroke laps was Juno
Oceanus, then for a while I watched some black
and white boys wrestling and joking, teammates, wet
plums and peaches touching each other as if

it is not necessary to make hate,
as if Whitman was right and there is no death.
A big wind at our backs, it is lovely, the maple boughs
ride up and down like ships. Do you mind
if I take off, he says. I’ll catch you later,
see you, I shout and wave, as he peels
away, pedaling hard, rocket and pilot.

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Size matters!

First some good news: Baltimore orioles arrived at the grape jelly feeder this morning. Ruby-throated hummingbirds have been seen at both the front window and the rear deck nectar feeders. The water in the bird bath wasn't frozen this morning. A hen turkey has been showing up the past several days, apparently to check out any droppings from the deck feeders. In a subtle and understated way, her feathers are beautiful.

Second, it's cloudy again and supposed to shower this afternoon, but, we need the rain, sort of like we all need a shower from time to time. More less good news, the conservative area of Wisconsin we drove through last Friday just elected a Trump-supporting Republican in a special election. Pundits are arguing about  what that means. I say we may need rain from time to time but these days we don't need more Republicans. As I type up this blog posting, I can see more and more clearly why Harry Truman wanted a one-handed economist. But, these days finding lots of plain old good news is a challenge. The best we're able to come up with (and keep a straight face) is the old "... on the  one hand, ... etc."

we haven't found CAFO numbers for bison

Photo by J. Harrington

For example, we got excited when we read about Senator Booker's legislation placing a moratorium on large confined animal feed operations [CAFOs]. Then, this morning, we began to read through it and were appalled at the numbers required to be considered "large." According to Wikipedia, these are the numbers in current regulations:

Animal Sector	Large CAFOs	Medium CAFOs	Small CAFOs
cattle or cow/calf pairs	1,000 or more	300–999	less than 300
mature dairy cattle	700 or more	200–699	less than 200
turkeys	55,000 or more	16,500–54,999	less than 16,500
laying hens or broilers (liquid manure handling systems)	30,000 or more	9,000–29,999	less than 9,000
chickens other than laying hens (other than a liquid manure handling systems)	125,000 or more	37,500–124,999	less than 37,500
laying hens (other than a liquid manure handling systems)	82,000 or more	25,000–81,999	less than 25,000

We've lived in the country, toward the rural edge of the Twin Cities peri-urban area, for quite awhile. The air sometimes gets ripe in the Spring in some parts of our county. There's no way we'd want to live next to or downwind of most medium-sized CAFOs, let alone a large one. Our neighbors had a handful of horses and we could always tell when they mucked out the barn. Although not listed in the table above, a large horse CAFO is 500 head; sheep, 10,000. That's a lot of manure.

think about what to do with the manure from 500 of these

Photo by J. Harrington

We hope Senator Booker is successful with his proposed legislation, and we may return to this subject as we learn more about it, but we doubt very much it will make progress as long as substantial numbers of rural voters persist in voting Republican and urban folks believe cheap food is worth  destroying the countryside and the air and water we all depend on.

Becoming a Redwood

By Dana Gioia

Stand in a field long enough, and the sounds   

start up again. The crickets, the invisible   

toad who claims that change is possible,

And all the other life too small to name.   

First one, then another, until innumerable

they merge into the single voice of a summer hill.

Yes, it’s hard to stand still, hour after hour,   

fixed as a fencepost, hearing the steers

snort in the dark pasture, smelling the manure.

And paralyzed by the mystery of how a stone   

can bear to be a stone, the pain

the grass endures breaking through the earth’s crust.

Unimaginable the redwoods on the far hill,   

rooted for centuries, the living wood grown tall

and thickened with a hundred thousand days of light.

The old windmill creaks in perfect time

to the wind shaking the miles of pasture grass,   

and the last farmhouse light goes off.

Something moves nearby. Coyotes hunt   

these hills and packs of feral dogs.

But standing here at night accepts all that.

You are your own pale shadow in the quarter moon,   

moving more slowly than the crippled stars,   

part of the moonlight as the moonlight falls,

Part of the grass that answers the wind,

part of the midnight’s watchfulness that knows   

there is no silence but when danger comes.

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Midwest vs North vs ???

The Star Tribune has an article exploring the question: Should Minnesota be considered part of the Midwest? Perhaps I missed it (no way) but the article never did clarify what's meant by the Midwest. In fact, it notes "Defining the Midwest, it turns out, is not as geographically simple as it might seem. In fact, it’s not even entirely about geography." The quotation never does inform us what the Midwest is entirely about. The map of Census Bureau regions ignores the Standard Federal Regions, the Federal Reserve Bank districts, the Court of Appeals district, the Bureau of Economic Analysis Regions and a variety of other "Unofficial multi-state and multi-territory regions."

Then there's the whole question of whether arbitrary administrative regions [our definition], including state and county boundaries, should have any real relevance compared to watersheds, ecoregions and/or bioregions.

U.S. rivers from Grasshopper Geography

Some folks have been pitching the idea that Minnesota should brand itself as "North." Canada and Alaska might have better claim on that. Perhaps one of the fundamental questions we need to think about is Why? Or, what is it we want to measure or compare? Are we playing compare and contrast? If this a variant of "Where's Waldo?" or "The Oregon Trail?" Earlier today I was skimming some research findings to the effect that: "About four-in-ten Americans say they don’t feel attached to their community." The same package of findings indicated that, no matter where you live, you're likely to believe that someone else is getting more than their share of the good things in life. [We'll probably return to this some other day.]

We're going to declare, somewhat capriciously, but not arbitrarily, that multistate regions are probably of much less relevance than your neighborhood which may, or may not, align with township, city or county boundaries. Thats something else to think about. And, because we've again started to ponder how well it may or may not fit with all of these questions, concerns and opportunities, how about the rural-urban transect? I feel my status as a recovering planner is slipping!

rural to urban transect

A Blessing

By James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.   

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me   

And nuzzled my left hand.   

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

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Climate Strike aka #FridaysForFuture

The Climate Strike is two (2) weeks from today. In a very pleasant surprise, we learned that there's a local event in the county. On September 20 at 7:45 am:

I'm attending a Climate Strike event at the Chisago County Government Center in Center City, Minnesota.

Workers and youth connecting in the community for a livable planet

Can you join me? Click here for details and to RSVP: 

https://actionnetwork.org/events/chisago-county-government-center-in-center-city-minnesota

Thanks!

Once upon a time we were a youth and we've just about always been a worker. Not long ago we finished reading a book by Parker Palmer, On the Brink of Everything, in which he borrows a phrase from a Kris Kristofferson song, made famous by Janis Joplin: "“Old is just another word for nothing left to lose,..." We're always loved that song and, although we're not sure we'll ever have enough years to become a kinder, gentler version of ourselves, that's something we've let slip away, but we absolutely want to do what we can with the time and energy we have to make a world better for our offspring, descendants and fellow inhabitants of planet earth. We're too close to losing anything like a decent future to be comfortable pleading "old and tired." Parker Palmer has it right. Hope to see you on the 20th and at other actions to create a livable planet.

The Question

by Theo Dorgan

When the great ships come back,
and come they will,
when they stand in the sky
all over the world,
candescent suns by day,
radiant cathedrals in the night,
how shall we answer the question:

What have you done
with what was given you,
what have you done with
the blue, beautiful world?

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A delightful September day

This has been the kind of morning we tuck away to bring out come the second or third blizzard in January or February. We're pleased to report that the local asters are in bloom. We saw both large-leaved asters and sky-blue asters, many more of the former, as we poked about some of the less well traveled corners of the county this morning.

sky-blue asters

Photo by J. Harrington

We took the Better Half [BH] for a cappuccino at one of our favorite local coffee shops. After sitting and sipping for awhile on their backyard patio, we wandered off to see if Wild River State Park and the St. Croix River were where we left them. They are and both seem to be doing well, all things considered, although our beleaguered drive may be in better shape than some of the roads in the park.

Coffee Talk in Taylors Falls

Photo by J. Harrington

Winterberry, a native holly, is adorned with bright red berries these days. Maybe we'll plant a couple of those near the wet spot in the back yard to provide some natural color in the Winter and forage for some of the local critters. Holly berries in early September does seem to be pushing the season, though.

Winterberry berries

Photo by J. Harrington

Both the BH and Yr. Obt. Svt. concurred as we arrived home that we definitely need to add more frequent excursions like this morning's to our weekly and monthly routine. Our regular beaten paths have gotten too well trod.

To the Light of September

By W. S. Merwin

When you are already here 

you appear to be only 

a name that tells of you 

whether you are present or not 

and for now it seems as though 

you are still summer 

still the high familiar 

endless summer 

yet with a glint 

of bronze in the chill mornings 

and the late yellow petals 

of the mullein fluttering 

on the stalks that lean 

over their broken 

shadows across the cracked ground 

but they all know 

that you have come 

the seed heads of the sage 

the whispering birds 

with nowhere to hide you 

to keep you for later 

you 

who fly with them 

you who are neither 

before nor after 

you who arrive 

with blue plums 

that have fallen through the night 

perfect in the dew

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Damn beaver dam?

We managed to upload our recent pictures to the computer. That means we can now share pictures to go with last week's posting about a beaver dam. According to the Minnesota Department of Natural Resource brochure about the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area [W.M.A.]: "...Trappers harvest from good populations of mink, muskrat, racoon [sic] and beaver."  We further note that the same brochure informs us that

Water levels in many of the wetlands are regulated via a system of dikes and control structures to produce the types of vegetation favored by many species of furbearers and waterfowl. Other techniques used to increase the value of wetlands include prescribed burning and ditch leveling. Cattail stands are managed by water level control and mechanical treatment. [emphasis added]

As we've perused the brochure over the past few days, it's become clear to us that there are many areas of the W.M.A. that we haven't even begun to explore, even though they're essentially in our backyard. We now have something to work on before and after this and next year's hunting seasons. It's embarrassing how readily we go from developing a habit to falling into a rut about where and how we get around. Anyhow, here's the promised pictures of the neighborhood beaver dam, or what's left of it.

what's left is half a beaver dam

Photo by J. Harrington

a closer look at what's left

Photo by J. Harrington

the other half is on the left bank behind the tree

Photo by J. Harrington

whose beaver dam removal tool?

Photo by J. Harrington

The Beaver

Author Unknown

The forest creatures pause in awe as the mighty Beaver passes.
They stare from rock and fallen log, from treetop and from grasses.
The bear, the fox, and buffalo, and all their feathered neighbors,
Bend a knee and bow a head,
And somewhere grateful prayers are said,
For every creature hoped to see the Beaver as it passes.

The Beaver's strength is legend, it's noble, wise and good,
And word goes out to every corner of that primal wood.
The coming of the Beaver means an end to hardships here.
The mountain stream will halt its course;
Provide a bounteous water source;
For one thing every creature knows is Beavers dam good!

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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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Time to reset how the pieces fit?

We've been reading Ted Kooser's Kindest Regards: new and selected poems. Last night we reached the section entitled "The Blizzard Voices" [1986]. The first poem begins "Eighteen eighty-eight, a Thursday / the twelfth of January:" Out of curiosity about whether Mr. Kooser had taken poetic license with his selection of a date, we looked it up. We should have known better than to question Mr. Kooser's authenticity to place and time, especially in Nebraska. We read:

... The blizzard of January 12, 1888 had an immense impact on the lives of all who remembered it. This blizzard was one of the most destructive and devastating in Nebraska history for a number of reasons: its unexpected arrival on what had been a relatively warm winter’s day; the timing, striking Nebraska and the Dakota territories when children were at school and farmers were out working in the fields; and the fierceness of the winds that swirled the snow around so much that visibility was near zero for hours....

This Spring, Nebraska and Iowa are the center of a major flooding event due to a late Winter--early Spring storm. Some claim to have never seen anything like it. Back in Minnesota and North Dakota, the mayors of Fargo and Moorhead are declaring emergencies in anticipation of Red River flooding. The lower Mississippi River hasn't yet been hit by Minnnesota's snow melt, but it's flooding now. And still, we keep electing "leaders" who refuse to acknowledge that Mother Nature bats last, always.

a mosaic needs a variety of pieces for one picture

Photo by J. Harrington

We believe it was Bill McKibben, some time ago, who noted that "The laws of Congress and the laws of physics have grown increasingly divergent, and the laws of physics are not likely to yield." We hope that one day soon we'll be wise enough to elect those whose approach is to work with Mother Nature, rather than on her. That would be great training for us to then relearn how to work with each other instead of trying to take our balls and go home every time we don't like the result of a play we called ourselves.

Humans have made contemporary climate less stable and weather events more volatile. Corporations have fed us disinformation (a charitable description) on smoking and fossil fuels and green house gases. Our culture continues to debate cause and effect rather than perform an all hands on deck to respond to an earth-wide conflagration. Adults have forced children and teenagers to lead the way. No matter how biblically correct [Isaiah 11:6], that should, politically, be a kiss of death. We've become convinced that it is unlikely the world would be in much worse shape if lead by women and children. It may actually be time to put women and children first to help us avoid the need for life boats. The male leadership we've had for eons has not served us well, for the most part. Remember those "weapons of mass destruction?"

whose family were not once immigrants?

Photo by J. Harrington

As a species, we seem to have both a memory and a fuse that's too short. We have come to focus too much on self-serving, self-aggrandizing, behaviors. We would ask you to find a copy of Kooser's "Blizzard" poems and read them all. Those who survived did so largely because they helped, and/or had help from, neighbors and community members, not because of how much money they had in the bank. Is that the world we've maintained until this day? How many neighbors can you name? How many do you help? Do walks and driveways get shoveled, blown or plowed? When was the last time you helped fill sandbags? What message would it send if the Minnesota legislature adjourned for a couple of days and filled sandbags in Moorhead, and even Fargo? I, for one, would have a lot more respect for most of them if they did. After all, many of our families ended up here because we came from someplace less friendly, right?

from I.C.E. AGE

David Buuck

The removal of aliens who pose  
[        ] shall be ICE’s high [        ]
 
These aliens include  [        ]
engaged in or suspected of
[        ] or who otherwise pose
 
[        ] aliens convicted of [        ]
particular emphasis [        ] and repeat
 
aliens [        ] who participated [        ]
[        ] subject to outstanding [        ]
who otherwise pose [        ]  to public safety.
 
 
Aliens who are [        ]  otherwise
obstruct [        ]  fugitive aliens,
in descending priority as [        ]
aliens who pose [        ]  security;

[        ]  or who otherwise pose [        ]         
the community; [        ] other than [        ];
and [        ] who have not been [        ];
 
aliens who reenter [        ]  in descending
priority as [        ]  aliens who pose [        ]  
previously removed [        ] who other-
wise pose [        ]  to the community;

previously removed [        ] who have not been
convicted of [        ] who obtain
admission or status by [        ] ;
otherwise  [  

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Time to watch for green bonfires #phenology

In a neighborhood only 3 or 4 miles southeast of us, a forsythia bush is in full bloom, has been for the past few days, a bright yellow explosion on the landscape. Our forsythias, neither as old nor as well grown, show but slight signs of having survived the Winter. We're less jealous of the distant neighbor's success and more curious about the astounding difference in early Spring development. It wouldn't be hard to convince us that it's due to degree of care. The ability of a plant to thrive under a regime of benign neglect is a useful trait on our property.

is this a dogwood, or wild plum or...?

Photo by J. Harrington

Perhaps there is a significant microclimate difference. The blooms in the picture above (wild plum?), located about a quarter of the way between our property and the blooming forsythia, had opened by the end of the third week of April two years ago. We've seen no sign of them so far this year and we don't think we've missed their bloom but time will tell.

We've howling winds, or strongly gusting breezes, depending on your perspective, again this afternoon. Another Red Flag day. There's lots of cloudiness but not much rain in the extended forecast. We suspect that will hinder the local "green-up" schedule.

The Enkindled Spring

D. H. Lawrence, 1885- 1930

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration 
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

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Country living, a Christmas tale

Life in the country can be tranquil, but not always. Several weeks ago we had a visitor, a springer spaniel that belongs to someone more than a mile up the road. It took awhile, but we managed to get dog and owner together again.

This morning the Better Half left for work at her normal early hour. Shortly thereafter, she reentered the house with an announcement: "There's three horses at the end of our driveway!" (No photos, it was still morning-dark and we feared a flash might spook the animals.)

neighbor's horses (not the ones at the driveway this morning) in Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

Daughter Person assigned us to grab a few apples. Son-In-Law called the sheriff's office. On our own, we thought to grab some of the longer ropes and leads we have hanging in the garage and back hall. The Better Half remained as an observer at the road end of the driveway. By the time we reinforcements arrived, we looked around and said "What horses?" (Actually, we had seen them earlier through the front door sidelight windows.) The animals had wandered off.

Daughter Person headed for the house of the neighbor we know keeps horses (but the ones we saw didn't look like the draft animals that live across the road). Neighbor get's awakened. Says all his horses are where they belong; dresses; slowly drives down the road, looking for the horses and to check with another horse-keeping neighbor near where the dog came from.

Winter sunrise over neighbor's fence

Photo by J. Harrington

We've been know to misplace our truck keys on occasion, and once upon a time we were infamous for misplacing our check book. We can, gratefully and honestly, say we've never misplaced a dog or a horse, let alone three horses. We'd also note that such things never happened when we lived in the city, except that we've learned to Never Say Never!

We hope this turns out to be another "all's well that..." and look forward to soon providing a happy ending to this Christmas tale. For now, all we can say is "stay tuned."

Oh, and don't forget to enjoy whatever that strange light is up in the sky. We hope it's not an omen of something to fear.

                     All Your Horses

By Kay Ryan

Say when rain

cannot make

you more wet

or a certain

thought can’t

deepen and yet

you think it again:

you have lost

count. A larger

amount is

no longer a

larger amount.

There has been

a collapse; perhaps

in the night.

Like a rupture

in water (which

can’t rupture

of course). All

your horses

broken out with

all your horses.

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A Few of My Favorite Things

Last night's opening of A Few of My Favorite Things went well. Here's a sampling of the exhibits:

jewelry and textile art

Photo by J. Harrington

oil painting

Photo by J. Harrington

photography

Photo by J. Harrington

photo painting

Photo by J. Harrington

watercolor

Photo by J. Harrington

There were other genres in the show. I read one of my poems, Prairie Grasses, an earlier version of which is available on YouTube (follow the link). The exhibit will be up for awhile, so if you're in the neighborhood...

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Giving the berries to the bears, or the birds?

Harvest season; canning season. Would that I could harvest a month of days like today, preserve them, and one-by-one take them from the root cellar next Winter. Not all at once of course, maybe just a couple a week during January, February and March.

Black Chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa) the year it was planted

Photo by J. Harrington

While playing in the run today with one of the dogs, I noticed that at least one of the Black Chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa) bushes is missing a number of leaves. All of them are missing berries, for the second year in a row. I suspect the local whitetails, or perhaps the rabbits, have been taking advantage of us, again, although the shrubs are listed in several sources as being "deer resistant." One of the challenges of country living is enjoying nice things before the local wildlife beats us to it. Yesterday I transplanted this year's chipmunk number 5 or 6. I'm still hesitant to try bee-keeping because of bears and keeping chickens because of coyotes. Maybe next year I'll try one or the other. Bear, deer and, often, chipmunks do most of their pilfering at night. That's also when we hear the coyotes. I need to get some sleep every day so the wildlife often wins. Sigh! To be clear, I don't mind sharing but think I''m due at least a tithe.

bear scat on deck [Black Chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa)?]

Photo by J. Harrington

One the other hand, if these are the most non-trivial problems I have, then they aren't non-trivial, actually, are they. The turkeys haven't been aggressive, no bear at the feeders so far this year. (I hope that's not famous last words.) Now that I think about it, last August's (2014) bear scat on the deck looks suspiciously like 2013's black chokeberries, doesn't it? Maybe the answer is to plant lots more and see if we can overwhelm the eaters and nibblers.

Cheer

By Stanley Plumly 

Like the waxwings in the juniper,

a dozen at a time, divided, paired,

passing the berries back and forth, and by

nightfall, wobbling, piping, wounded with joy.

Or a party of redwings grazing what

falls—blossom and seed, nutmeat and fruit—

made light in the head and cut by the light,

swept from the ground, carried downwind, taken....

It's called wing-rowing, the wing-burdened arms

unbending, yielding, striking a balance,

walking the white invisible line drawn

just ahead in the air, first sign the slur,

the liquid notes too liquid, the heart in

the mouth melodious, too close, which starts

the chanting, the crooning, the long lyric

silences, the song of our undoing.

It's called side-step, head-forward, raised-crown, flap-

and-glide-flight aggression, though courtship is

the object, affection the compulsion,

love the overspill—the body nodding,

still standing, ready to fly straight out of

itself—or its bill-tilt, wing-flash, topple-

over; wing-droop, bowing, tail-flick and drift;

back-ruffle, wingspread, quiver and soar.

Someone is troubled, someone is trying,

in earnest, to explain; to speak without

swallowing the tongue; to find the perfect

word among so few or the too many—

to sing like the thrush from the deepest part

of the understory, territorial,

carnal, thorn-at-the-throat, or flutelike

in order to make one sobering sound.

Sound of the breath blown over the bottle,

sound of the reveler home at dawn, light of

the sun a warbler yellow, the sun in

song-flight, lopsided-pose. Be of good-cheer,

my father says, lifting his glass to greet

a morning in which he's awake to be

with the birds: or up all night in the sleep

of the world, alive again, singing.

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That going to the dogs smell

We live on a gravel township road. You can tell by the constant accumulation of dust in the house that we get more traffic than I'd like. Every several weeks the grader comes by to smooth out the surface ripples. Despite all of this, plus the recent rains, our dogs find more fascinating smells in the road's surface than I can begin to understand. I can neither begin to envision what they're smelling nor how the scents are holding long enough to attract the intensity of attention they get. But then, I'm not a dog, nor do I speak doggish well enough to discuss the situation with Franco or SiSi.

a gravel country road, full of smells?

Photo by J. Harrington

Because it has an "other" side to get to, our road is often crossed by whitetail deer, wild turkeys, cottontails and squirrels, less often by turtles and snakes and an occasional black bear. Based on the tracks I see from time to time, the deer and turkeys enjoy a periodic stroll along the road in addition to crossing it. Not being a canid, I have assumed that these smells are common enough that they wouldn't create the ecstasy of sniffing, snuffing and huffing I sometimes get to watch after our walk has been brought up short by whatever scent, smell, aroma or fume has attracted a dog's attention. Clearly my assumption is wrong, plus I failed to remember how I behave when confronted by the aromas of some of my favorite foods. The other point I don't understand is if or whether dogs have a mental image of what they're smelling. The Sunday smell of someone frying chicken immediately brings to my mind the crispy, crunchy perfectly brown color of fried chicken skin. If I smell a skunk, I picture a black and white striped pussy cat creature. What do you suppose is going through what passes for a dog's mind while he or she is running around, nose down, in very tight but unconcentric circles? Do you think he or she nose what's going on?

Dogs Are Shakespearean, Children Are Strangers

By Delmore Schwartz 

Dogs are Shakespearean, children are strangers.

Let Freud and Wordsworth discuss the child,

Angels and Platonists shall judge the dog,

The running dog, who paused, distending nostrils,

Then barked and wailed; the boy who pinched his sister,   

The little girl who sang the song from Twelfth Night,   

As if she understood the wind and rain,

The dog who moaned, hearing the violins in concert.   

—O I am sad when I see dogs or children!

For they are strangers, they are Shakespearean.

Tell us, Freud, can it be that lovely children   

Have merely ugly dreams of natural functions?   

And you, too, Wordsworth, are children truly   

Clouded with glory, learned in dark Nature?   

The dog in humble inquiry along the ground,   

The child who credits dreams and fears the dark,   

Know more and less than you: they know full well   

Nor dream nor childhood answer questions well:   

You too are strangers, children are Shakespearean.

Regard the child, regard the animal,   

Welcome strangers, but study daily things,   

Knowing that heaven and hell surround us,   

But this, this which we say before we’re sorry,   

This which we live behind our unseen faces,   

Is neither dream, nor childhood, neither   

Myth, nor landscape, final, nor finished,   

For we are incomplete and know no future,   

And we are howling or dancing out our souls   

In beating syllables before the curtain:   

We are Shakespearean, we are strangers.

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The buck[s] stop[s] here

Midday, midweek, cool, rainy, kind of gloomy. I was at a meeting in Minneapolis all morning and had another appointment this afternoon. I wasn't sure when or how I'd get a chance to write something for My Minnesota. I needed something to cheer me up. I got it them. As I looked out the picture window, I saw a young fork horn buck, still in velvet, poking along the edge of the woods. I got my camera, took some pictures and felt considerably cheerier than I had fifteen minutes before. Then I looked again, wondering how he had moved to the front of the apple trees without my noticing. Then I saw that this wasn't the first buck, this was another one with slightly smaller antlers, also in velvet. That's more bucks at one time than I've seen in my entire life before this. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

fork horn #1 in velvet

Photo by J. Harrington

fork horn #2 in velvet

Photo by J. Harrington

Waumandee

By Mark Wunderlich 

A man with binoculars   

fixed a shape in the field   

and we stopped and saw   

the albino buck browsing   

in the oats—white dash   

on a page of green,   

flick of a blade   

cutting paint to canvas.   

It dipped its head   

and green effaced the white,   

bled onto the absence that   

the buck was—animal erasure.   

Head up again, its sugar legs   

pricked the turf, pink   

antler prongs brushed at flies.   

Here in a field was the imagined world   

made visible—a mythical beast   

filling its rumen with clover   

until all at once it startled,   

flagged its bright tail—   

auf Wiedersehen, surrender—   

and leapt away—   

a white tooth   

in the closing mouth of the woods.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.