Some ways to wisdom

The Better Half and I spent much of the afternoon listening to a wise and interesting white man, Kent Nerburn, talk about the wisdom of Native Americans. Nerburn has written a number of books on the theme of his talk and he read excerpts from several, plus answered questions and spoke a bit from his own notes. The presentation took place in an art gallery in Sandstone, about an hour’s drive north of our place. The trip home was disrupted by a several mile long traffic backup north of Hinckley and another one near the Pine / Chisago county boundary on I-35. If it’s not winter blizzards messing up Minnesota’s roads, it’s summer road work making drivers harried.

Thinking about Nerburn’s comments while sitting in the southbound backup pretty much convinced me, not that I needed much, that Native Americans have more sustainable and resilient cultures than ours. Plus, ours is headed in the wrong direction. We have much too much emphasis on individuals and not enough on community; we place waayyy too much value on money and not enough on intangible values like friendship and kindness; we confuse religion with spiritual. Over the past several decades, I’ve noticed increasing awareness of, and acceptance of, Native American culture. More is needed. I hope we become wise enough to include many indigenous teachings in our children’s education. Whether he intended to or not, I believe President Biden reflected honor on the role of elders in a healthy culture when he decided to not campaign for the nomination and became a potential elder advisor to the next president. We need more of that kind of thinking and doing.

sometimes an owl symbolizes wisdom

Photo by J. Harrington

If you’re interested in learning more about how Native American and Western Judeo-Christian perspectives can complement each other, try reading any of these:

• Gathering Moss, Robin Wall Kimmerer
• Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer
• Medicine Wheel for the Planet, Dr. Jennifer Grenz
• The Seven Generations and The Seven Grandfather Teachings, James Vukelich Kaagegaabaw
• The above linked list of books by Kent Nerburn
• Almost any Joy Harjo poem such as this

For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet 

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

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 it 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 your spirit back. It may be 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 may 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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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

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. 

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

This new normal doesn’t seem normal

Trust me, I’m NOT complaining about the lack of snow, but it does leave the back yard and the countryside looking shopworn. Another day of cloudy skies doesn’t help. To prove that you can believe I’m NOT complaining, yesterday I fired up the snow blower to be ready, just in case. It went fine.

With what passes for normal weather patterns disrupted for now, I’m noting that the daily highs and lows are what is usually considered good for maple syruping (lows mid 20’s, highs mid 40’s), most years that happens next month. I wonder if this may catch some folks with their syruping buckets down. I’ll keep my eyes open as I wander through the countryside over the next week or so.

barred owl: winter visitor

Photo by J. Harrington

Two years ago we were visited by a barred owl in early February. No sign of any so far this year. Maybe some day soon we’ll at least get to hear a pair calling to each other as part of a mating ritual and I’m not giving up hope of a sighting since many of them have been in March.

I don’t know about you, but I definitely needed a push out of my mechanistic routine into a more organic pattern, I do believe we’ve got one with little sense of what comes next. Good luck to US.

Snowy Night 

by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which, 
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway, 
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something, 
and sweeter? Snow was falling, 
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night, 
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world, 
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl, 
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow, 
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning. 

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

Return of the raptor?

A barred owl (the barred owl?) is on the same branch occupied several days ago by either the same bird or a different one that looks very much  the same. Since, as far as I know, it’s not possible to put ear tags on barred owls, I have real difficulties telling one from another. The one on the perch today doesn’t look quite like the one previously seen, but that could as well be my  eyes or memory. In any  event, we’re more than pleased that the perch is again occupied by a barred owl, right out where we can watch from our easy chair.

today’s barred owl

Photo by J. Harrington

If it’s not the same owl, what are the odds that the one branch on an oak tree is so ideal that two separate owls would choose it? If it is the same owl, where was it yesterday and the day before? Maybe owls are also guided by conditions like “When the moon is in the Seventh House // And Jupiter aligns with Mars” that help them determine where to perch.

I have two books about owls, Intriguing Owls and Twelve Owls. It’s been awhile since I’ve read either. Time to pull them off the shelf and see what they say about barred owls. Seems the least I can do to get to know more about a new neighbor.

The Owl

Edward Thomas - 1878-1917

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
       Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
       Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
       Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
       Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
       All of the night was quite barred out except
       An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
       No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
       But one telling me plain what I escaped
       And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
       Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
       Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
       Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

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

Goodbye and good riddance!

Some minutes ago, today’s raindrops turned into snowflakes. They are among the last of the season, since Monday is Spring Equinox, but probably not the last until summer. This is a winter I will not be sorry to see end. We’ve reached the 8th snowiest winter on record for our area and that makes it hard to accept the reports that we’re experiencing global warming which affects Minnesota’s winters more than our summers. It almost comes down to who are we going to believe, the scientists or what we see out the window. Speaking of which, here’s a picture of the owl that’s been visiting, perched on the railing of the deck stairs landing. Would that we were all that wise and able to hang on ’til the current storms blow over.

barred owl perched in snow

Photo by J. Harrington

But then, (Isn’t there almost always one of those?) it’s been reported to have been a winter of poor ice in many locations. Those reporting poor ice conditions obviously haven’t visited our driveway. This may be the snowfall that we decide to let melt instead of clear from our drive. After a cold weekend, we’re forecast to reach the 40's all of next week, but (there we go again) it depends on how much accumulation we end up with. If it’s much more than an inch, we’ll scrape and/or blow snow to expedite getting the drive back to bare dirt as soon as possible.

I’ve noticed more and more during the past week or ten days that I’m far from the only one grumpily commenting on the extent and duration of the winter almost past. Although I don’t have numbers handy, I suspect that this winter has had more cloudy days than usual. That, plus state, national and world events is enough exacerbate Seasonal Affective Disorder with gloominess due to continuing COVID, irrational Republicans, bank failures, stock market volatility, and a level of social, cultural and economic contentiousness not seen for awhile.

Last Snow

By Heid E. Erdrich

Dumped wet and momentary on a dull ground

that’s been clear but clearly sleeping, for days.

Last snow melts as it falls, piles up slush, runs in first light

making a music in the streets we wish we could keep.

Last snow. That’s what we’ll think for weeks to come.

Close sun sets up a glare that smarts like a good cry.

We could head north and north and never let this season go.

Stubborn beast, the body reads the past in the change of light,

knows the blow of grief in the time of trees’ tight-fisted leaves.

Stubborn calendar of bone. Last snow. Now it must always be so.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

“Willow” weep for me!

We are now less than a week from Spring Equinox. The barred owl is again on its perch in the oak tree next to the deck. The sun is shining and the temperatures for the first half of next week begin to approach normal (mid-40’s). Meanwhile, both coasts are getting pounded by severe storms and the country is trying to forestall a collapse of the banking system. We are certainly living in interesting times.

barred owl on its usual branch

Photo by J. Harrington

Since I’m a recovering planner who suffers an occasional relapse, the kerfuffle about whether the Biden Administration should or should not have approved the Willow project in Alaska has me in a planning mode wondering who, if anyone, is responsible for identifying and tracking the progress, if any, toward meeting the requirements to abate greenhouse gas targets by dates certain. The IPCC reports don’t seem to clearly specify a basis on which we can tell what should, or should not, be allowed. Perhaps what I’m looking for will be included in a major report to be issued by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) on the Spring Equinox this year. More likely, the high level language suitable for policy makers will fail to be sufficiently specific to determine whether certain projects are approvable based on meeting policies. The looseness with which “truth” is proclaimed by liberals and conservatives doesn’t much help those responsible for doing the analysis on which projects are deemed consistent, or not, with goals and policies.

I base my assessment and part of my critique on the failure of Minnesota to meet, for an extended period of time, legislatively mandated greenhouse gas reduction goals. I also am sensitive to the egregious failure of the United States to meet its legislatively mandated clean water goals of 1983 and 1985. In fact, we’ve allowed the global economy to go in the other direction and make pollution of water by PFOS and PFAS almost ubiquitous.

There are several relevant quotations that help explain the challenges we face as a species trying to keep our planet habitable. We need to stop electing and empowering folks who think like this:

• “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”     Bill Clinton


• "When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”     Yogi Berra

Instead, we are well advised to empower leaders who think like this:

• “And what is the point of learning facts within the school system when the most important facts given by the finest science of that same school system clearly mean nothing to our politicians and our society?”     ― Greta Thunberg, No One Is Too Small to Make a Difference 


• “The laws of Congress and the laws of physics have grown increasingly divergent, and the laws of physics are not likely to yield.”     — Bill McKibben

 

Willow Weep for Me

Ann Ronell

Willow weep for me
Willow weep for me
Bent your branches down along the ground and cover me
Listen to my plea
Hear me willow and weep for me
Gone my lovely dreams
Lovely summer dreams
Gone and left me here
To weep my tears along the stream
Sad as I can be
Hear me willow and weep for me
Whisper to the wind and say that love has sinned
To leave my heart a sign
And crying alone
Murmur to the night
Hide her starry light
So none will find me sighing
Crying all alone
Weeping willow tree
Weeping sympathy
Bent your branches down along the ground and cover me
Listen to me plead
Hear me willow and weep for me
Willow
Willow
Weep for me

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Is it work, or play?

Our neighborhood barred owl has returned and is perched on the same branch as it was a few days back. Looks like nap time now, or something close to it. Earlier today it was perched on the snow covered railing of the deck stairs. Meanwhile, woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees and the like continue to pile into the feeders. It’s possible that the persistent, repeated snow showers, snow storms, snow fall is making nature’s other critters as flaky as us humans. I’ve just about reached my limit of clearing the driveway every other or every third day and the continuing trend of below normal temperatures is also wearing thin. I think I’m getting a better understanding than I ever wanted of how Sisyphus felt.

napping barred owl in the oak

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I found myself wondering, assuming someday we get repeated sunshine and the snow actually melts away, for how long will those new and different conditions make me happy. Will any euphoria last a week, two, a month? Or will I begin to take sunshine, warmth, greening, an approximation of spring, for granted after a couple of days? Trying to remember back to Christmas and birthdays when I was young, how long did the appeal of a new toy last before it became humdrum, commonplace? How is it that some toys or clothes became favorites, never boring but played with or worn, until broken, lost or worn out.

The dogs are about as fed up with snow, snow, and more snow as I am. Their run and the path to it haven’t been accessible since the end of last year. They’re no happier about feeling stuck in the house than I am so I just dug out a toy for each of them that the Better Half picked up some time ago. They’re soft vinyl squares with shallow patterns like honeycomb on one side and suction cups on the other. The patterned sides get slathered with a thin coating of peanut butter and the suction cups hold it on the kitchen floor while the dogs lick the peanut butter out/off of the combs. It’s challenging and rewarding for the dogs and they seem to be having a good time as I finish today’s posting.

Sisyphus and the Ants

By Jennifer S. Flescher

The story tells us Sisyphus is being punished.

Over and over he has to push that boulder

up and up. The mountain and God glaring.

And you, you have

your avalanche of moods.

Pills the size of stars to nearly quell

cascade and tumult.

And still you step

gravity amplified by incline, each hazard

in the way of the boulder a reminder

it should be easier. There should be

a hot fudge sundae at the top. A long nap in the shade.

The story forgot to tell us, though, Sisyphus thrived.

He learned to guide his wrists

and shoulder girdles safely to protect himself.

And later he worked to safeguard every insect

from here to the crest. Considers this his calling.

Even as the sun and the weight of time bears down.

Your strength is kingly.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

It’s still winter for another 9 days

We had a barred owl visitor late yesterday. It perched on a bare, dead branch on the oak next to the rear deck. The owl’s presence didn’t seem to bother the cardinal pair that perched about 20 - 25 feet away on the same tree at about the same height. After something like an hour, the owl began its classic call: 

Barred Owls have a distinctive hooting call of 8–9 notes, described as “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?” This call carries well through the woods and is fairly easy to imitate. During courtship, mated pairs perform a riotous duet of cackles, hoots, caws and gurgles.

barred owl on an oak

Photo by J. Harrington

After a few calls the bird flew away, possibly to its mate since we’re somewhere around the beginning of nesting season.

This afternoon the birds and squirrels are piling in to the feeders in the midst of yet another snow storm. I’m fed up with writing about it so for now, owl be seeing you.

A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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

Owl be seeing you

Yesterday we had an infrequent visitor. The Better Half brought  to my attention a barred owl perched on a dead branch behind the garage, on the south side of the house. Other years when we’ve been visited by a barred owl, s/he perched in a tree on the north side. The bird feeders were unattended while the owl was visiting. We’ll see if we end up with a nesting pair anywhere nearby. There’s an abundance of squirrels living on the property that could stand thinning.

barred owl on dead branch

Photo by J. Harrington

I first became familiar with barred owls when I started turkey hunting years and years ago. Imitating the owl’s call was an attempt to get a tom turkey to respond with a gobble. Memory fails regarding whether the ruse was ever successful, but playing the game was always fun.

Over the next several days we’re supposed to enjoy a February thaw. And then, with luck, we’ll settle into a more seasonal temperature pattern and the Arctic air will stay in the Arctic where it belongs. Today’s howling winds have drifted snow across almost all the local roads. Winter has now reached the point of resembling a guest who has overstayed their welcome.

A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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

Easing into January #phenology

Part of our efforts this year to make nature a bigger part of our lives is the addition of a Leopold Phenology Calendar, which we finally remembered to hang up this morning. It tells us that this is the month that great horned owls are laying and incubating eggs and that today is the day that northern cardinals begin their spring song. Since Baraboo,WI is about 165 miles to our south and fifty or so miles to our east, we can assume that events in our neck of the woods will occur about ten days to two weeks later. [Check Hopkins’ Law)

barred owl perched north of the house

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve encountered few, if any, great horned owls but do enjoy an occasional visit by a barred owl, like the one that stopped by at the end of January last year. They begin nesting in a couple of months. With all the squirrels we have in our woods, I’m surprised we don’t have a nesting pair living nearby year round.

Our Yule season is close to over. The removal of decorations has begun with the disposal of last year’s Christmas cards. This weekend the tree will come down. At least one of us is hoping for and looking forward to a real January thaw. We’ll see if we get lucky this year. If foregoing a January thaw means no polar vortex, we’ll grumble but take it.

This morning I visited the Granddaughter to share with her one of the books Santa’s elves left for me. She seemed pleased by the drawing of a fox on the cover of Gail Boss’ All Creation Waits and collected her  own soft, fuzzy fox doll from her toy pile. I read a little and she listened a little and then she  bent forward and gave me a soft, fuzzy hug. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been hugged by  a not quite 1 1/2 year old. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful they are. Twenty-twentytwo is looking better by the day.

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. 

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

"one swallow does not a summer make" #phenology

The title's citation may well also apply to waterfowl returning in "Springtime" in the North  Country. We believe we saw a Canada goose standing on a muskrat house along the Sunrise River just North of County Road 36 in Wyoming. We were in a hurry to get home to deal with some other matters so we didn't slow down enough to confirm our suspicions. Tomorrow may offer more time for that opportunity.

The river, pools and marshes are still ice covered. We saw no sign of open water anywhere. Then again, as we write this, the temperature outside is 56℉. Even our ice-coated drive is beginning to melt, and that's before we get into the low 60's tomorrow. We won't know for several weeks, if indeed by then, whether we have enjoyed an early Spring.

barred owl, visiting

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday afternoon we had the pleasure of the company of a neighborhood barred owl perched in a tree a little North of the house. The backyard squirrel populations were nowhere to be seen while the owl was visiting. Since we can't distinguish the gender of barred owls, nor have we seen evidence of a nest, we're unsure if we have a visitor or a neighbor. In either case, having such company makes for a very pleasant afternoon (or morning).

Thirteen Ways of Looking: Poems About Birds

In honor of the poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"
 by Wallace Stevens


I. As Faith

Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune without the words,  
And never stops at all,  
   
And sweetest in the gale is heard;          
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm.

     –from "Hope is the thing with feathers" by Emily Dickinson





II. As Freedom

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
   When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
   But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings!

     –from "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar





III. As Nature

I will never give up longing. 
I will let my hair stay long. 
The rain proclaims these trees,
the trees tell of the sun.
Let birds, let birds.
Let leaf be passion.
Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be
between us. Let joy.

     –from "Let Birds" by Linda Gregg





IV. As Exile

The Himalayan legend says
there are beautiful white birds
that live completely in flight.
They are born in the air,

must learn to fly before falling
and die also in their flying.
Maybe you have been born
into such a life

with the bottom dropping out.

     –from "In Flight" by Jennifer K. Sweeney





V. As Muse

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,  
  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,  
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,  
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:  
Already with thee! tender is the night,
  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,  
    Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;  
          But here there is no light,  
  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown  
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

     –from "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats





VI. As Music

Tuwee, calls a bird near the house,
Tuwee, cries another, downhill in the woods.
No wind, early September, beeches and pines,

Sumac aflame, tuwee, tuwee, a question and a faint
But definite response, tuwee, tuwee, as if engaged
In a conversation expected to continue all afternoon,

Where is?—I’m here?—an upward inflection in 
Query and in response...

     –from "Birdcall" by Alicia Suskin Ostriker





VII. As Ecstasy

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing  
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
  As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding  
  Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding  
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!  

     –from "The Windhover" by Gerard Manley Hopkins





VIII. As Wisdom

Look!  Look!  he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.

     –from "Evening Hawk" by Robert Penn Warren





IX. As Patience

Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time.
And sets it down just beyond the other,
no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on
slowly across the silt, mud, algae-
throttled surface, through sedge grass,
to stand to its knees in water turning
grayer now that afternoon is evening.

Now that afternoon is evening
the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky,
bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond.

     –from "The Blue" by David Baker





X. As Poet

My mother would be a falconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, 
where I dream in my little hood with many bells 
jangling when I'd turn my head.

     –from "My Mother Would Be a Falconress" by Robert Duncan





XI. As Omen

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
               Then the bird said "Nevermore."

     –from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe





XII. As Pest

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.

     –from "Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens" by Jack Prelutsky   





XIII. As Dinner

CHICKEN.

Alas a doubt in case of more go to say what it is cress.
 What is it. Mean. Why. Potato. Loaves.

     –from Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein

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Owl be seeing you

As this is written, a barred owl is perched on a branch of the oak tree just North of the deck behind the house. S/he's been there for several hours. Woodpeckers, chickadees, nuthatches continue to visit the feeders hanging on the deck but both red and gray squirrels are conspicuous by their absence.

barred owl on oak branch

Photo by J. Harrington

I'm delighted by this state of affairs since barred owls are one of my favorites. Also, since a fair part of yesterday was spent repairing squirrel-damaged bird feeders, there seems to be a certain poetic justice to today's visitor appearing and hanging around.  We have our fingers crossed that s/he finds a suitable nest site and settles in for this year's mating season.

Meanwhile, out in the fields behind the house, we've seen neither hide nor feather of the deer and turkey populations, with  the possible exception of a deer sighting at dusk a week or so ago. Fresh whitetail tracks show up from time to time, but by the time we see the tracks, no one's in them.

As you know, tomorrow's the last day of January and next weekend threatens to inflict a polar vortex on us. At least by then we'll be 1/4 through February. Meanwhile, as we finish this posting, our visitor has flown the branch.

A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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Recently, our sightings included...

Yesterday afternoon, after we had posted for the day, we enjoyed a brief (5 seconds) treat. We noticed a barred owl perched on a branch of the oak tree overhanging the deck. That explained the lack of activity at the feeders and a very infrequent absence of squirrels. As soon as s/he noticed us looking through the glass walkout doors, s/he swooped away into the woods North of the house. Might we get lucky enough to have a mating pair this Spring? We'll keep our fingers crossed.

barred owl perched North of house

Photo by J. Harrington

This Winter we've been seeing more pheasants than we recall seeing in prior years, Most of them have been along the roadside. Many have been roosters. Is this a sign of Minnesota's warmer Winter temperatures? Is pheasant range in the state moving Northward? Is this year an anomaly? The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources makes no mention of any of these possibilities.

pheasant rooster in Winter

Photo by J. Harrington

Probably the most unusual sighting we've had over the past few weeks was a muskrat along the side of the road, at least a quarter of a mile or so from the nearest water or wetland. We won't even speculate about why it was where it was when it was.

This afternoon we're watching a fairly typical mix of chickadees, goldfinches, woodpeckers, purple finches and a few nuthatches at the feeders. No sign of the barred owl. It's been weeks since we've seen and deer or turkeys. We bet if we spent more time outside and less time doom-scrolling on Twitter, we might have more to report. Someday soon we might even be bright enough to follow our own advice.

The Owl

By Edward Thomas

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; 

Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof 

Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest 

Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. 

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, 

Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. 

All of the night was quite barred out except 

An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry 

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, 

No merry note, nor cause of merriment, 

But one telling me plain what I escaped 

And others could not, that night, as in I went. 

And salted was my food, and my repose, 

Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice 

Speaking for all who lay under the stars, 

Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

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'Tis better to light a candle than curse the darkness!

We're back to 100% cloud covered skies. Sigh! Rain is forecast to start within the next hour. Deep Sigh! At least we now have some jack-o'-lantern pictures to share. May they brighten the day! The top one I carved. It's a spider, carved in honor of our son, the arachnophile. The bottom two were carved by the Better Half. I think she did the owl because she knows I've a thing for owls and she did the ravens (or the dove and the raven if you look too closely) because she liked the picture on which the carving was based. If I were that capable with carving tools, the spider would look more like a tarantula, but all those fuzzy hairs intimidated me.

for the arachnophile in your life

Photo by J. Harrington

pumpkin carvings for the birds

Photo by J. Harrington

Today we start the last week of October, and it's not even a full week. Then, again, we get to enjoy Halloween and Samhain as the week and the month end and November begins. May all our haunts be happy ones and may the darker half of the year see us warm, dry and with harvest stores that last until next year's fresh food emerges and ripens and may this week bring us more treats than tricks!

October

Evalyn Callahan Shaw

October is the month that seems 
All woven with midsummer dreams;  
She brings for us the golden days 
That fill the air with smoky haze,  
She brings for us the lisping breeze 
And wakes the gossips in the trees,  
Who whisper near the vacant nest  
Forsaken by its feathered guest.  
Now half the birds forget to sing,  
And half of them have taken wing,  
Before their pathway shall be lost 
Beneath the gossamer of frost.  
Zigzag across the yellow sky,  
They rustle here and flutter there,  
Until the boughs hang chill and bare,  
What joy for us—what happiness  
Shall cheer the day the night shall bless?  
‘Tis hallowe’en, the very last  
Shall keep for us remembrance fast,  
When every child shall duck the head 
To find the precious pippin red.

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Owls enliven the lulls of January #phenology

A fresh coating of snow brightens the woodlot and sharpens the shadows. Yesterday's storm left us with the lower end of the 3 - 6 inches forecast, but that seems to have been enough to void our mail delivery, unless there actually was no mail for any of the four adults at this address?

Fresh deer tracks crossed the fields today. Where did they come from? Where are they going? Why? Have you ever followed a deer's tracks just out of curiosity?

No new visitors at the feeders to report.  If Summer has its dog days, we think these may be Winter's equivalent. We presume it's only been goldfinches who have consumed about half a tube of niger thistle seeds.Early signs of cabin fever are starting to appear, not because we've been trapped, but due almost entirely to seasonal inertia. We'll try not to judge ourselves too harshly on that front since this is a season of introspection and quietude. Not much is happening in the North Woods.

barred owl in our wood lot

Photo by J. Harrington

We suspect that, somewhere in our nearby woods, a couple of bear cubs are, or will soon be, recent arrivals. We know there's barred owl living somewhere in the neighborhood. The fact that there seem to be several pileated woodpeckers also living around us bodes well for barred owl nesting sites. It's time, or past, for our local owls to begin establishing a territory and start mating behavior. Perhaps some warmer evening soon we'll take a moment or two to stand quietly and listen for any owl calls. At least we won't have to swat mosquitos at this time of year.

                     A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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Owl be seeing you #phenology

The trees in our neighborhood are about 75% or 80% bare of leaves, enough so that the mylar aluminized balloon that appeared late last Spring is visible again. The flashing on a sunny day is a real irritation so we'll tend to that next week when we get back from our weekend "Up North." Lack of leaves made it easier to notice one of our favorite neighbors stopped by for a visit. Return of a barred owl to the trees on the North side of the house made my day yesterday.

barred owl on bur oak

Photo by J. Harrington

Owls are among our favorite birds. We're not sure why, although the eyes, the facial expressions, the swiveling heads, the quiet flight and the consumption of small rodents may have something to do with it. It's been too long since we last reread Laura Erickson's Twelve Owls, illustrated by Betsy Bowen or Intriguing Owls, by Stan Tekiela. We'll put those on the stacks to be read this Winter, while we're curled up nice and warm. (As an aside, we're looking forward to Winter and the turning of the year because we already have Betsy Bowen's 2018 calendar to hang.)

"who-cooks-for-you?-who-cooks-for-you?"

Photo by J. Harrington

For the record, the fact that Harry Potter's owls (real ones, not the Ordinary Wizarding Level [O.W.L.] exams) have been written about by Laura Erickson, as Professor Mcgonagowl, doesn't hurt our continuing affection for and fascination with owls.

In the process of taking the photos above, we also made some limited progress on a seasonal chore. We removed a window screen so we wouldn't have the screen distorting any pictures. We did the same the other day in one of the windows of the room where we often write. Wild creatures are much less troubled by photographers inside a house than by those that try to sneak up outside for a better "shot." No screens and clean glass help compensate for skittishness on the part of subjects.

                     A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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Continue to love #phenology

Today's normal high temperature is 24℉. A few minutes ago, I tried (and failed) to take a picture of today's rain showers. The photo does, however, nicely reflect my current mood and outlook: dreary, glum, unseasonal, etc. Somehow, one might think that the Trump administration, and the state of Wisconsin, believe the climate change challenge can be solved by deleting or distorting all references to it on their respective web sites. That makes as much sense as the North Carolina legislation prohibiting sea-rise. But enough about politics.

dreary, glum, unseasonal January rain

Photo by J. Harrington

Evenings this week have had either a male or a female cardinal showing up at the front feeder. So far, there's been no time when both were there simultaneously. Also, on a recent evening, one of the neighborhood's barred owls was seen perched in a tree near the deck feeders. All of this came about after I'd posted daily blogs noting the absence of cardinals and owls in the area. I'm going to give some thought to other topics I can write about safely and see if I can create a related change. If that works, we'll then try for world domination.

As you know, four years ago today, Barack Obama was inaugurated President of the United States for the second time. A few days prior to his inauguration, I wrote something titled "Progress" that seems to have been more prescient than I realized at the time. Here's a link to that posting. Think there's anything to it?

One other piece of good news this week, in the process of poking around the interwebs over the past day or so, I found the Split This Rock web site, on which the following is part of a 6 poem Inaugural posting. You're welcome and,

YOU ARE WHO I LOVE

By Aracelis Girmay

You, selling roses out of a silver grocery cart

You, in the park, feeding the pigeons
You cheering for the bees

You with cats in your voice in the morning, feeding cats

You protecting the river   You are who I love
delivering babies, nursing the sick

You with henna on your feet and a gold star in your nose

You taking your medicine, reading the magazines

You looking into the faces of young people as they pass, smiling and saying, Alright! which, they know it, means I see you, Family. I love you. Keep on.

You dancing in the kitchen, on the sidewalk, in the subway waiting for the train because Stevie Wonder, Héctor Lavoe, La Lupe

You stirring the pot of beans, you, washing your father’s feet

You are who I love, you
reciting Darwish, then June

Feeding your heart, teaching your parents how to do The Dougie, counting to 10, reading your patients’ charts

You are who I love, changing policies, standing in line for water, stocking the food pantries, making a meal

You are who I love, writing letters, calling the senators, you who, with the seconds of your body (with your time here), arrive on buses, on trains, in cars, by foot to stand in the January streets against the cool and brutal offices, saying: YOUR CRUELTY DOES NOT SPEAK FOR ME

You are who I love, you struggling to see

You struggling to love or find a question

You better than me, you kinder and so blistering with anger, you are who I love, standing in the wind, salvaging the umbrellas, graduating from school, wearing holes in your shoes

You are who I love
weeping or touching the faces of the weeping

You, Violeta Parra, grateful for the alphabet, for sound, singing toward us in the dream

You carrying your brother home
You noticing the butterflies

Sharing your water, sharing your potatoes and greens

You who did and did not survive
You who cleaned the kitchens
You who built the railroad tracks and roads
You who replanted the trees, listening to the work of squirrels and birds, you are who I love
You whose blood was taken, whose hands and lives were taken, with or without your saying
Yes, I mean to give. You are who I love.

You who the borders crossed
You whose fires
You decent with rage, so in love with the earth
You writing poems alongside children

You cactus, water, sparrow, crow      You, my elder
You are who I love,
summoning the courage, making the cobbler,

getting the blood drawn, sharing the difficult news, you always planting the marigolds, learning to walk wherever you are, learning to read wherever you are, you baking the bread, you come to me in dreams, you kissing the faces of your dead wherever you are, speaking to your children in your mother’s languages, tootsing the birds

You are who I love, behind the library desk, leaving who might kill you, crying with the love songs, polishing your shoes, lighting the candles, getting through the first day despite the whisperers sniping fail fail fail

You are who I love, you who beat and did not beat the odds, you who knows that any good thing you have is the result of someone else’s sacrifice, work, you who fights for reparations

You are who I love, you who stands at the courthouse with the sign that reads NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE

You are who I love, singing Leonard Cohen to the snow, you with glitter on your face, wearing a kilt and violet lipstick

You are who I love, sighing in your sleep

You, playing drums in the procession, you feeding the chickens and humming as you hem the skirt, you sharpening the pencil, you writing the poem about the loneliness of the astronaut

You wanting to listen, you trying to be so still

You are who I love, mothering the dogs, standing with horses

You in brightness and in darkness, throwing your head back as you laugh, kissing your hand

You carrying the berbere from the mill, and the jug of oil pressed from the olives of the trees you belong to

You studying stars, you are who I love
braiding your child’s hair

You are who I love, crossing the desert and trying to cross the desert

You are who I love, working the shifts to buy books, rice, tomatoes,

bathing your children as you listen to the lecture, heating the kitchen with the oven, up early, up late

You are who I love, learning English, learning Spanish, drawing flowers on your hand with a ballpoint pen, taking the bus home

You are who I love, speaking plainly about your pain, sucking your teeth at the airport terminal television every time the politicians say something that offends your sense of decency, of thought, which is often

You are who I love, throwing your hands up in agony or disbelief, shaking your head, arguing back, out loud or inside of yourself, holding close your incredulity which, yes, too, I love    I love

your working heart, how each of its gestures, tiny or big, stand beside my own agony, building a forest there

How “Fuck you” becomes a love song

You are who I love, carrying the signs, packing the lunches, with the rain on your face

You at the edges and shores, in the rooms of quiet, in the rooms of shouting, in the airport terminal, at the bus depot saying “No!” and each of us looking out from the gorgeous unlikelihood of our lives at all, finding ourselves here, witnesses to each other’s tenderness, which, this moment, is fury, is rage, which, this moment, is another way of saying: You are who I love   You are who I love  You and you and you are who

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Winter birds (plus Hobbits etc.) #phenology

First, and most importantly today, don't forget to make a Happy Birthday wish for J.R.R. Tolkien! Let's hope that we have no Long Winters in our future.

We had too much local cloud cover last night to get a glimpse of the Quadrantid Meteor Shower. Today's clearing skies offer hope for a better view tonight / tomorrow morning, but wind chill and resulting heavy coats, scarfs and hats may make it a challenge to stand still and look up during tomorrow's early (4 am) dog walk. Seeing that Boston is experiencing rain with temperatures in the low 40's makes me only a little nostalgic for my place of origin.

Male Cardinal at tray feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's Star Tribune has a nice article about the 8 Minnesota birds to watch for in the Winter. We've had each and every one at our feeders (except for the sparrows), although, this year, the Cardinals have been scarce to non-existent. The one feeder we've been filling regularly isn't their preferred style. The tray feeders they like attract too many squirrels, and, without tray feeders, the squirrels have been feasting on the ground litter so the Cardinals haven't been ground feeding either. Time to fill the wire feeder and see if that offers a productive compromise. The bright red splashes of male Cardinals do wonders to help temper Minnesota's Winters.

Owls have also been conspicuous by their local absence. The bat box doesn't seem to have worked well, but maybe we could try an owl nesting box to attract more owls to the area, although, if squirrels were more nocturnal, or owls hunted more in the daytime, I'd expect the gray and red rodent abundance we have to be tempting.

The King of Owls

By Louise Erdrich

It is said that playing cards were invented in 1392 to cure the French king, Charles VI, of madness. The suits in some of the first card packs consisted of Doves, Peacocks, Ravens, and Owls.

They say I am excitable! How could

I not scream? The Swiss monk’s tonsure

spun till it blurred yet his eyes were still.

I snapped my gaiter, hard, to stuff back

my mirth. Lords, he then began to speak.

Indus catarum, he said, presenting the game of cards

in which the state of the world is excellent described

and figured. He decked his mouth

as they do, a solemn stitch, and left cards

in my hands. I cast them down.

What need have I for amusement?

My brain’s a park. Yet your company

plucked them from the ground and began to play.

Lords, I wither. The monk spoke right,

the mealy wretch. The sorry patterns show

the deceiving constructions of your minds.

I have made the Deuce of Ravens my sword

falling through your pillows and rising,

the wing blades still running

with the jugular blood. Your bodies lurch

through the steps of an unpleasant dance.

No lutes play. I have silenced the lutes!

I keep watch in the clipped, convulsed garden.

I must have silence, to hear the messenger’s footfall

in my brain. For I am the King of Owls.

Where I float no shadow falls.

I have hungers, such terrible hungers, you cannot know.

Lords, I sharpen my talons on your bones.

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