May: be better days ahead

A mile or two up the road, I used to enjoy looking at a cluster of prairie smoke (Geum triflorum) in bloom in May or June. It's been a couple of years or more since I wandered that way. This year seems like a good time to see if it's still growing there. I suspect today's warm weather has made me think of that. We may actually get to enjoy a few days of real Spring over the next week or two.

prairie smoke in bud

Photo by J. Harrington

Although the buds on the maple trees in front of the house have swelled a lot this past week, there's still barely a hint of bud burst or leaf out. No green tinge on the tree tops yet. On the other hand, there's a lot of waterfowl and shorebirds in the area now. I flushed a flock of five wood ducks from the pond north of the property a couple of days ago. The pair of mallards on the other side of the road just swam away. This year there seems to be more swans than I remember in years past. It's always a delight to see and hear them in flight. A couple of Tom turkeys have been doing mating displays this week in the field behind the house.

I've long been interested in phenology and Emergence Magazine's current volume has an absolutely wonderful video/written piece about Seasoning a Kid. Please check it out. I'm finding that the return of life, and the promises that implies, are helping me minimize the dismay and despair triggered by the current regime in Washington and its aiders and abettors. I'm not sure we could last through sixteen years, the way Hungary has, and hope we don't even come close.

We're now less than three weeks from Beltane. I have my fingers crossed that conditions will permit burning the back yard brush pile that evening as a seasonal celebration. Many years it's been too dry and/or windy to safely have such a fire.

In recognition of National Poetry Month, and the state of the world, please enjoy

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies

by Joy Harjo

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

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No April Fools here!

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

April 4, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

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

April 2, 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Welcome April!

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Spring is sprung, what's next?

Yes, thank you, I have almost recovered from the Spring cold I started coming down with last weekend. Also, once again, the snow cover has finally melted. Locally, things are looking up, but the skies are too often clouded. That hasn't kept the waterfowl from returning. The Sunrise River pools have lots of open water occupied by swans, Canada geese and diving ducks. I also saw the unusual sight of a handful of crows walking along the ice at the edge of open water. Surrounding marshes may contain red-winged blackbirds, but our observations weren't close enough to confirm identification.

returning Canada geese and ducks on Sunrise River in Carlos Avery WMA

Photo by J. Harrington

While suffering the sneezing, coughing, snuffling, nose-blowing, no energy miseries this past week, I had the pleasure of reading most of Rebecca Solnit's The Beginning Comes After the End. So far it's got me, Mr. Gloom and Doom, feeling more optimistic than I have in quite a while. I've lived through and been generally aware of almost all the changes she writes about, but hadn't put them together quite the way she does. Meanwhile, I'm still adjusting to the idea that the future isn't something out there that we adapt to but something all of us are creating by our actions (or inactions) every day.

I'm looking forward to bud burst, leaf out and green up, along with days growing warmer and maybe even occasional sunshine. However, I've lived in the North Country long enough to know better than to prematurely pack away our gear for snow and/or cold weather. Maybe the last few patches of icy snow on the shaded south side of the drive will actually finish melting one of these days and we can look forward to seeing ducklings, goslings and sandhill crane colts as the seasons go round and round.

Of Course It Hurts

by Karin Boye

Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
and for that which envelops.

Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
                      and to want to fall.

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help,
the tree’s buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch’s drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey –
feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
                         that creates the world.

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Sometimes, days just hummm!

Even though Minnesota has an early season for teal and geese, I don't (won't) hunt waterfowl when the temperature's in the 70's and 80's. It would feel so unright to not be freezing sensitive parts of my anatomy while in a duck or goose blind. The current forecast includes temperatures at or above 80℉ through mid-week. Archery deer season opened yesterday when the high reached 82℉. That's weather for standing in a trout stream, maybe even wet wading, rather than sitting and sweating on a deer stand. At least that's according to me but judging by the number of parked vehicles in the area, some folks see it otherwise.

female ruby-throated hummingbird at feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Speaking of deer and warm weather, I'm please to note that the replacement serviceberry bushes are still showing green leaves inside their wire protective cages. Deer and/or rabbits and/or pocket gophers haven't yet done any obvious damage. Our fingers remain crossed but, to be honest, with the current state of the world, I feel a little like Merwin in the poem below. I heartily look forward to being proven wrong by events (or lack thereof).

Despite the return of summer after a recent cold front, I don't think I've seen a hummingbird at the feeder for a day or two now. It's about that time of year, for them to follow orioles south. UPDATE: as I was typing the previous sentence, a female ruby-throated hummingbird landed on the sugar water feeder. That pleases me almost as much as yesterday's discovery that we have some wild asters (perhaps silky asters) in bloom up on the slope behind the serviceberry bushes. I noticed them as I was watering the bushes.

Perhaps fall weather will arrive, and stay for a while, as we get to the autumn equinox a week from tomorrow, at 1:19 pm CDT. I've had enough of heat, humidity, and wildfire smoke for this year. Maybe cooler weather will also help cool some rhetoric and hot heads. That would be a help to avoid triggering the last day of the world.

Place

By W.S. Merwin

On the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree

what for
not for the fruit

the tree that bears the fruit
is not the one that was planted

I want the tree that stands
in the earth for the first time

with the sun already
going down

and the water
touching its roots

in the earth full of the dead
and the clouds passing

one by one
over its leaves

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Approaching Vernal Equinox

We have once again survived the conversion to daylight savings time. Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day. We wish a happy one to those who celebrate. This morning a ball of Irish soda bread dough went into the oven and made the house smell wonderful for awhile as it baked. The Better Half is cooking corned beef for tonight’s dinner. I’m wearing a green t-shirt, socks, and shoes today and will be attired in something similar tomorrow. I’m of Irish extraction as they say in my hometown of Boston

Unfortunately, since January 20, we appear to be blessed not by anyone good at driving out snakes, but with St. Upid. Many of US wish him a quick trip back to Apprenticeland, or wherever, until he learns how to behave with civilized people who lack the forbearance of, or for, some saints.

St. Upid, Patron Saint of Economic Collapse

We’ve already had our first 70 degree day and some thunder. Many waterfowl have returned over the past few days. Weeping willows are turning golden. Red osier dogwood has brightened. There’s only a few small patches of snow left, if that. There's snow in the forecast for the day before Spring arrives which, in Minnesota, isn't terribly surprising. In years past, we've had snow every month of the year but one. This year is looking like a tarriffic one for all kinds of volatility and roller coaster rides.

I spend too much time doom scrolling and hope to soon find something more enjoyable to do instead. Fly fishing, anyone? Then again, though I've not yet acquired the skill to turn away from watching an impending train wreck, I do hope we won’t soon be forbidden to wear certain colors, especially since “Spring Is a New Beginning."

"The Wearing of the Green" Lyrics

Oh, Paddy dear, did you hear the news that's going 'round?

The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground

Saint Patrick's Day no more to keep, his color can't be seen

For there's a bloody law again' the Wearing of the Green.

I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand

And he said, "How's poor old Ireland and how does she stand?"

"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green."

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

Then since the color we must wear is England's cruel red

Sure Ireland's sons will never forget the blood that they have shed

You may pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod

But 'twill take root and flourish there, though underfoot 'tis trod.

When laws can stop the blades of grass for growing as they grow

And when the leaves in summertime their verdure dare not show

Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen*

But 'til that day, please God, I'll stick to Wearing of the Green.

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart

Her sons, with shame and sorrow, from the dear old Isle will part

I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea

Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom's day.

Ah, Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand

Must we seek a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land

Where the cruel cross of England shall never more be seen

And where, please God, we'll live and die, still Wearing of the Green.

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

*"Caubeen" is an Irish word for a certain type of hat, similar to a beret.

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Trillium time?

It’s time to watch for the blooms of trillium in roadside woodlands. Some of this year’s flowers and birds have arrived about on time, others seem to be a week to ten days or so early. If trilliums blossom a little early, we should see flowers maybe next week. I’m going to remember to watch for them starting tomorrow.

Trillium grandiflorum (Large-flowered Trillium)

Photo by J. Harrington

From the goose I saw walking along a road and having trouble flying, it looks as though Canada geese may be starting to molt. The goose was walking along a gravel road as my Jeep and I slowly approached from behind. First the bird tried to outrun us. Then it tried to fly but had trouble getting off the ground. Finally it flapped and glided 20 or 30 feet into an alfalfa field adjoining the road. Then we drove past.

As of this afternoon I’m feeling less unclothed. I went online and renewed / replaced our Wisconsin family fishing license(s). Tomorrow may provide for a trip to a local fly shop to get Minnesota licenses for the Better Half and I. I’m annoyed at myself that it’s so late in the season (I’m not referring to Minnesota’s recent walleye opener) and we’ve not yet wet a line. You could claim I’ve gotten old and lazy and I’d not have much of a comeback. I’d probably have to plead nolo contendere.

Gather

Rose McLarney

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

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

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

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Thought for Food

For quite some years, we’ve been purchasing shares in a community supported agriculture farm. Rarely have we shopped at a farmer’s market; sometimes at a roadside stand. We’ve bought quarter or half an animal for meat (beef and lamb) in bulk from local producers. Long ago we tried our hands at growing our own vegetables. That was a course in frustration involving poor soil, wildlife freeloaders, uncooperative weather, lack of training, plus excessive biting insects.

there’s more than one way to harvest sunshine

Photo by J. Harrington

Something like a dozen or so fruit trees have been sacrificed in our efforts to start a small orchard of apple and pear trees. At this time of year I deeply regret not having planted any crab apples for just their blossoming beauty. The fruit tree deaths appear attributable to sandy, excessively drained soil and the taste pocket gophers have for fruit tree roots.

The Better Half [BH] and I share two memberships in local food co-ops, if we are liberal in our use of the term local. The BH took out a membership in a central city co-op back in the days when one or both of us were working in one Twin City or another. After we moved to the exurbs and headed “downtown” less frequently, I took out a membership in a Greater Minnesota city co-op next to a favorite book store.

We annually make what we consider meaningful contributions to a regional food shelf. I usually shop for native harvested, Minnesota grown wild rice. For several years we traveled to rural areas in the state to buy, roast, and eat at Thanksgiving a heritage breed turkey. In the years when I was more active as a waterfowler, we occasionally enjoyed a roast Canada goose at Christmas. We consider ourselves fortunate to have been able to indulge our food and taste preferences and to limit our dependence on industrial scale agriculture.

All of the preceding is lead up to my pleasant surprise at finding in my email inbox this week several announcements from organizations I’ve been following for some time. Rhey are now emphasizing their focus on food as part of a response to reducing greenhouse gases. For example:

Welcome to Drawdown Food

Food is the forgotten frontier of climate action. While energy, transportation, and industry garner much of the attention, what we eat and how we grow is one of the biggest contributors to global greenhouse gas emissions. To equip those in the food systems sector with the tools and insights they need to reduce emissions, Project Drawdown is launching a major new initiative: Drawdown Food.

“Using available technologies and practices, we can meet every person’s food needs while also neutralizing the food system’s impact on climate,” says Project Drawdown executive director Jonathan Foley, who is leading the initiative. “We just need to apply the right combinations of solutions in the right place at the right time.” Be sure to follow along – and invite those in your network to do the same – as we advance food-based solutions in the weeks and months to come. Learn more >>

and

🌸 Announcing the 2024–26 Rural Regenerator Fellowship

Calling rural artists in the Upper Midwest: Applications are now open for Springboard's 2024–26 Rural Regenerator Fellowship! We are excited to announce that this year’s Fellowship will focus on supporting artists whose work is connected to land, environment, and/or food systems.Rural artists who are using their creative practice to explore environmental justice, land and food sovereignty, agriculture, foodways, climate solutions, and/or sustainability are welcome to apply. We will select 12 fellows total. What the two-year Fellowship offers: Unrestricted $10,000 stipend to continue or expand rural artist's existing work. Opportunities for exchange and learning with other Rural Regenerator Fellows across the Upper Midwest. A supportive platform to build solidarity across rural geographies. This year’s new effort to amplify and support the urgent work of environmental stewardship aims to bring a new level of focus to the Fellowship in order to collectively contribute to long term change and support existing movements. Applications are open now through June 24, 2024. Interested in applying? Join our virtual info session on Friday, May 31 to learn more about the application and the fellowship.

Learn more and apply

I’m encouraged by the concurrent serendipity evidenced above because for years I’ve experienced how challenging, and expensive, it can be to eat healthy while limiting one’s climate (and related) footprint. If we really want to see widespread systems change, we need to make it much easier for families and individuals to do the right thing. Maybe we’re finally headed in that direction.

The Farmer

By W.D. Ehrhart

Each day I go into the fields to see what is growing

and what remains to be done.

It is always the same thing: nothing

is growing, everything needs to be done.

Plow, harrow, disc, water, pray

till my bones ache and hands rub

blood-raw with honest labor—

all that grows is the slow

intransigent intensity of need.

I have sown my seed on soil

guaranteed by poverty to fail.

But I don’t complain—except

to passersby who ask me why

I work such barren earth.

They would not understand me

if I stooped to lift a rock

and hold it like a child, or laughed,

or told them it is their poverty

I labor to relieve. For them,

I complain. A farmer of dreams

knows how to pretend. A farmer of dreams

knows what it means to be patient.

Each day I go into the fields.

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Spring preparations

Much of this morning’s snow has melted. (I hope my screams didn’t disturb anyone.) Repeat after me: We need the moisture! Yesterday’s bag of bergamot seeds has been joined by two planting trays. Those should get seeded today or tomorrow. Planting is scheduled for the first or second week of June (if the snow cover is shallow enough by then). This year's efforts are very different than the years when we harrowed the field, scattered seeds, and prayed for rain. We’ll see if the extra effort is worth it in terms of success.

will we see green-up anytime soon?

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I’m not exactly looking forward to it, I suspect it’s going to feel good to get outside and do chores other than snow blowing, especially if they’re done under a shining sun. I’ve been spending way too much time on my butt and in my head, reading and thinking, with little actual doing. It’s not an optimum combination, at least for me.

There was a flock of what I think were bufflehead on the Sunrise river pools near County 36 in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area today. I didn’t get a really good look but they were riding low in the water like divers and there were white patches on at least some heads. The neighborhood lawns are overrun with robins. Increasing numbers of Canada geese are loafing on local ponds and feeding in fields. Mother Nature must be thinking it’s time for Spring. Even one of the local big box stores is stocking its garden center.

Our Singing Strength

Robert Frost
1874 – 1963

It snowed in spring on earth so dry and warm
The flakes could find no landing place to form.
Hordes spent themselves to make it wet and cold,
And still they failed of any lasting hold.
They made no white impression on the black.
They disappeared as if earth sent them back.
Not till from separate flakes they changed at night
To almost strips and tapes of ragged white
Did grass and garden ground confess it snowed,
And all go back to winter but the road.
Next day the scene was piled and puffed and dead.
The grass lay flattened under one great tread.
Borne down until the end almost took root,
The rangey bough anticipated fruit
With snowball cupped in every opening bud.
The road alone maintained itself in mud,
Whatever its secret was of greater heat
From inward fires or brush of passing feet.

In spring more mortal singers than belong
To any one place cover us with song.
Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng;
Some to go further north to Hudson's Bay,
Some that have come too far north back away,
Really a very few to build and stay.
Now was seen how these liked belated snow.
the field had nowhere left for them to go;
They'd soon exhausted all there was in flying;
The trees they'd had enough of with once trying
And setting off their heavy powder load.
They could find nothing open but the road.
So there they let their lives be narrowed in
By thousands the bad weather made akin.
The road became a channel running flocks
Of glossy birds like ripples over rocks.
I drove them under foot in bits of flight
That kept the ground, almost disputing right
Of way with me from apathy of wing,
A talking twitter all they had to sing.
A few I must have driven to despair
Made quick asides, but having done in air
A whir among white branches great and small
As in some too much carven marble hall
Where one false wing beat would have brought down all,
Came tamely back in front of me, the Drover,
To suffer the same driven nightmare over.
One such storm in a lifetime couldn't teach them
That back behind pursuit it couldn't reach them;
None flew behind me to be left alone.

Well, something for a snowstorm to have shown
The country's singing strength thus brought together,
That though repressed and moody with the weather
Was none the less there ready to be freed
And sing the wildflowers up from root and seed.

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End of season weather

It’s been snowing since mid-morning. Tomorrow we may get to see what six+ inches of snow looks like when it gets rained on. I’m pondering whether we might get away with the “Mother Nature left it, let her clean it up!” approach. By mid-week we should be back to daytime high temperatures in the forties and yesterdays sunshine melted much of the snow from Thursday night.

waterfowl arrived just before the storms

Photo by J. Harrington

End of season snow storms present more complex challenges than those we get in December, January and February when, most years, we can expect to get more snow before spring thaw arrives and, if we hope to get out of the garage, we need to clear the driveway. If the snow is likely to mostly disappear over the next day or two, and it’s already officially spring, why bother with snow blowing in the middle of a rain storm? Tune in tomorrow or Tuesday to learn what we decided and how Mother Nature responded.

Meanwhile, I’m picturing a number of waterfowl pairs, especially Canada geese and mallard ducks, where the hen is quacking or honking “I told you it was to early to head North. There’s no way I’m going to build a nest in this stuff. Egg laying will just have to wait until this melts.” At least the prospects for the Easter Bunny hiding eggs in the grass instead of snowbanks look good.

Audubon Warblers

By Kevin L. Cole

The Audubon warblers keep the time of their coming,

Arriving on stillness of a storm,

Their breast and backs as dark as low bruised banks of cloud,

Rumps and throats as yellow as blooms of buckwheat.

 

They throng this evening in the newly-leaved

Tender-tipped canopies nervously weaving

Through the catkins like frantic prophets

Bearing some divine prophecy of the coming spring.

 

I wait, hoping for nothing too grave:

News of ruinous lands, of cutting and swarming locusts,

Of withering vines and empty granaries,

Of fasting, weeping, and rending of garments.

 

No, I wait for lighter fare:

Perhaps a promise that the green heron will nest

On the west end of the slough and that the ironweed

And wood lily will once again together bloom.

 

This would be an ample prophecy for another year—

This and a promise to keep the time of their coming.

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A between storms lull

More signs of spring, better than spring blizzards, are appearing in the lull between storms. The Sunrise River pools were hosting several bunches of mallards, fresh from southern grounds. A tom turkey was displaying for his harem of more than a dozen hens along a nearby county road. Birdsong persists in the morning despite the fresh snow cover. If only the forecast weren’t for an additional six to twelve inches tomorrow, on top of the nine inches we got Friday, I might feel almost springy myself. Ah well, all the more to look forward to!

tom turkey: fan-tailed mating display

Photo by J. Harrington

Between a basically snowless winter and an early Easter (next weekend), my sense of spring as an emergence has been thoroughly disrupted this year. Once the latest round of snow melts, I’m promising myself a wander into the nearby wetlands to look for skunk cabbage. Marsh marigolds should show up some time late next month and trilliums after that. In the midst of tomorrow and Monday’s storm, reading about fly fishing and turkey hunting will serve as a comfortable substitute for the real things. Until Palm Sunday..., unless I get worn out clearing snow.

For the Bird Singing before Dawn

Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

Nice out waiting for ice out

As I drove along County Road 36 this morning, through the Carlos Avery pools, there they were, about a dozen of so Canada geese, floating on open water and standing on the remaining ice. Witnesses to Spring, who believe it is here to stay for at least several months, have arrived. Early today I heard what may have been a robin tweeting in a nearby tree. What with warm and cold temperature swings, and the prospect of thunderstorms some day soon, I’m not sure whether to claim March will come in like a lamb or a lion, but as Spring progresses, soon the pools will look more like this.

most of the way to ice out

Photo by J. Harrington

We were successful at finding a small bunch of forced forsythia stems that are now sitting in a vase, brightening the place considerably, even more than the two amaryllis blooming next to them. Despite ticks and mosquitoes and viruses, nature offers beauty, consolations and distractions. If we pay enough attention, we might even glean some wisdom.

In honor of our currently departing season, we’ll end today’s posting with the lyrics to a song from my younger days that has become an ear worm over the past several weeks. (This version shouldn’t be confused with a song by the same title by Willie Nelson.)

The Party's Over

by Jule Styne, Adolph Green, Betty Comden

 

The party's over, it's time to call it a day

They've burst your pretty balloon

And taken the moon away

It's time to wind up the masquerade

Just make your mind up

The piper must be paid

The party's over, the candles flicker and dim

You danced and dreamed through the night

It seemed to be right just being with him

Now you must wake up, all dreams must end

Take off your makeup, the party's over

It's all over, my friend

The party's over, it's time to call it a day

They've burst your pretty balloon

And taken the moon away

Now you must wake up, all dreams must end

Take off your makeup, the party's over

It's all over, my friend

It's all over, my friend 

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The geese are back!

This morning I heard, and saw, several Canada geese headed for the Carlos Avery Sunrise river pools. Spring is inching northward by the day. Here’s the report from the National Phenology Network as of today.

Spring Leaf Index Anomaly, 2/26/24

Snow showers are in the forecast for tomorrow and March 4, but we know snow on the ground won’t last long with the high temperatures we’re getting on the days between snow showers. If you think I’m being too optimistic, take a moment and read what Aldo Leopold has to say in A Sand County Almanac about "March: The Geese Return.” His shack was/is about two weeks of Spring south of us without accounting for the effects of climate weirding. Locally, waterfowl migration is one to two weeks behind 2017’s early arrival of open water and birds.

geese on open water: February 21, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

In honor of the geese and today’s high temperatures approaching 60℉, I’m wearing a summer weight sweatshirt (no fleece lining). The ponds north of our property are thawing during the day and refreezing the nights that drop well below 32℉. Some day soon they won’t refreeze, at least for the next seven or eight months or so. It does feel strange writing about all this in February, though.

Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Mixed bag today

There’s something different about the air today. For the first time it feels like the beginning of the end of winter rather than unseasonably warm weather. The sun’s warmth could be felt through the windows of the Jeep. Parts of the Sunrise river are ice free, again. One can almost begin to believe in the possibility of an eventual green-up.

On the off chance you’re wondering, the only skin I have in today’s football game is related to Taylor Swift’s progressive politics and so I hope her boyfriend’s team wins. I lost almost all interest in Superbowls after the Minnesota Vikings lost for the fourth time, decades ago. We’ll munch some nachos and have the game on so we can talk to our son about it later. He’s a big sports fan. That’s the extent of my interest in who wins.

Carlos Avery WMA Sunrise river pools

Photo by J. Harrington

Much closer to home, I need to spend time this week taking a look at a proposed update to the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area Master Plan. We’ve lived on the eastern boundary for more than a quarter century and I was unaware there’s an existing master plan from 1977. I have noticed that invasive species don’t appear to be well controlled on many state properties and I doubt there’s much in the 1977 plan about that.

Football

By Louis Jenkins

I take the snap from the center, fake to the right, fade back...

I've got protection. I've got a receiver open downfield...

What the hell is this? This isn't a football, it's a shoe, a man's

brown leather oxford. A cousin to a football maybe, the same

skin, but not the same, a thing made for the earth, not the air.

I realize that this is a world where anything is possible and I

understand, also, that one often has to make do with what one

has. I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear corn

syrup on them because there was no maple syrup and they

weren't very good. Well, anyway, this is different. (My man

downfield is waving his arms.) One has certain responsibilities,

one has to make choices. This isn't right and I'm not going

to throw it.

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False Spring?

Other years I’d be looking forward to melting snow starting to expose the ground. This year I’m concerned that cold spells and blizzards may damage or kill those who have been suckered into believing winter may be over and start to emerge from dormancy. Will waterfowl head North prematurely, only to be faced with a refreeze and lack of food? I hope not. As is always the (often unacknowledged) case, we live one day at a time and have to play it that way.

early Spring arrivals, February 21, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

Not quite a decade ago, in 2017, at the beginning of the third week of the month, the Sunrise River pools in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area looked like the picture above. (The gray and white color spots in the center are swans and Canada geese.) So early arrivals of Spring to the North Country are not without precedent. We intend to keep our fingers crossed that the pattern holds and no harm is done.

As a matter of fact, the Ojibwe have a story about the annual battle between winter (Biboon) and spring (Ziigwan). That seems to indicate early or late arrivals of Spring are relatively normal in the natural order of things and life goes on. Perhaps if we spent more time during winter telling stories and sharing legends, we’d have a better sense of what’s normal and what’s not.

Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still. 

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill

all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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Nature’s Christmas presence

Some years, open water lasts into December and we get the pleasure of seeing trumpeter swans late in the season. Once, a few years ago, we went for a drive to take a look at the swans on open water of the St. Croix river at Hudson, WI in February. This has been consistent with my understanding that waterfowl, including swans, roost/rest on open water. This year several sightings have undermined my understanding. We’ve observed swans roosting in harvested farm fields during mid-day. Today was the most recent such observation, and there were several flocks of a dozen or so birds. I may need to do a bit of for real research this winter to see what I can learn. If any reader has insights or recommended sources, please feel free to share in the comments. Thanks!

Carlos Avery 2015: December awans

Photo by J. Harrington

Today’s swan sighting was an example of one of the pleasures of “country" living. While driving hither and thither on daily business, there’s often a chance one might see wildlife from time to time, especially if one travels on less trafficked county or township roads, which I am wont to do. A few years ago I noticed a single swan on the snow covered frozen surface of Bone Lake in Washington County. That’s how I ended up discovering the Hudson flocks. Some Christmas presents come early and unwrapped.

Swans are reported to be a symbol of tranquillity and peace (#8). That makes seeing them at this time of year especially significant. You don’t have to believe me, but ask Mary Oliver.

The Swan

by Mary Oliver

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

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Ice in

All the small to moderate size ponds and lakes I drove past this morning are ice covered shore to shore. Green Lake had a flock of about a dozen swans resting on the ice, near a flock of Canada gees about half that size. All had their heads tucked up under their wings. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.) Even the Sunrise river pools are iced in. We’re another step closer to a landscape frozen until spring and eventual ice out. I doubt this week’s warm up will return open water, but we’ll see.

Christmas lists are getting shaped up. I’m trying to not get too annoyed with today’s email flood of Giving Tuesday requests piling in a couple of weeks after Minnesota’s Give To The Max Day. Lots of good folks doing, or trying to do, good work, need support. Most of them seem to believe that the best indication you may give again is that you already gave once. But, as famous song writers once wrote “It ain’t necessarily so.”

have a holly, jolly Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

Some of the amaryllis bulbs are beginning to show signs of life in emergent green shoots. Others appear to be hibernating. It’ll be fun to see if we end up with red flowers for Christmas, New Year’s or Valentines. This reminds me, it’s almost time to go on my annual, sometime fruitless, search for holly plants or bouquets. At some point along the line, I became convinced it’s not really Christmas without holly. Even without being successful, the search is usually fun and often prompts unusual expressions on the faces of staff at local florists and nurseries.

This afternoon has brought blue skies, sunshine, and somewhat moderated temperatures. I’ve managed to pick up a few stocking stuffers. The rest of the week is supposed to be closer to seasonal temperatures. Friday is December 1. Whether or not we’re ready or in the mood, Christmas is on the way!

Fire and Ice

By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

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“Late" autumn #phenology

By the calendar, we’re close to mid-Autumn but you wouldn’t know it by the weather. Normal temperatures for this time of year are ten to fifteen degrees higher than we're experiencing. Last night and this morning we were under a full moon known as the Falling Leaves Moon by both the Ojibwe and the Lakota peoples. Today’s leaf fall confirms their accuracy. When we noticed the setting moon this morning, it had a ring around it, which is often a sign of precipitation on the way. So far, much of the day has been partly sunny, a pleasant change, and partly cloudy, same old same old.

ice covered bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

It’ll probably be a month, or six or eight weeks, before we see local lakes ice in. (The bird bath warmer has been plugged in to keep it ice free.) We’ll try to keep track of open water versus ice even though ice fishing isn’t our thing (flies and poppers just bounce on the ice when we cast) and we gave up ice skating many decades ago. We anticipated a major movement of waterfowl with the storm that came through last week, but so far haven’t noticed any signs of migration. I’m not sure there’s been enough snow and ice in Canada to move birds south.

The Better Half took on seasonal wardrobe change this past week. That’s a chore I’ve not yet faced up to. Maybe after Halloween I’ll sort out the “what to wear” tricks and treats. This is a time of year when I feel a need for three or four wardrobe changes during a single day since we start cold, warm up, cool off and end cold. That reinforces my belief that these are times I need to live one day at a time, except when it comes to sourdough bread, for which I have to plan several day’s activities to create the levain, then the dough, then fermentation and, finally, baking. We are definitely back in baking season.

As you can tell, we’ve nothing terribly exciting to report on the home front, for which we’re grateful. The Twins did a quick exit from the MLB playoffs. The Vikings are playing .500 ball going into today’s game and the Wild season has just begun. Our son is much more of a sports fan than I but I try to keep up for his sake.

Leaves

Lloyd Schwartz     1941 – 

                        1 

Every October it becomes important, no, necessary
to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded
by leaves turning; it's not just the symbolism,
to confront in the death of the year your death,
one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony 
isn't lost on you that nature is most seductive
when it's about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its 
incipient exit, an ending that at least so far 
the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain)
have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe
is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception
because of course nature is always renewing itself—
        the trees don't die, they just pretend,
        go out in style, and return in style: a new style.





                        2 

Is it deliberate how far they make you go
especially if you live in the city to get far 
enough away from home to see not just trees 
but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high 
speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were 
in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves:
so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks 
like rain, or snow, but it's probably just clouds
(too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder, 
given the poverty of your memory, which road had the 
most color last year, but it doesn't matter since 
you're probably too late anyway, or too early—
        whichever road you take will be the wrong one
        and you've probably come all this way for nothing.






                        3 

You'll be driving along depressed when suddenly
a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through
and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably
won't last. But for a moment the whole world
comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives—
red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,
gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations
of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire.
It won't last, you don't want it to last. You 
can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop. 
It's what you've come for. It's what you'll
come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll 
        remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt
        or something you've felt that also didn't last.

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Autumn prelude

For the past eighteen hours or so, there were storms to the east of us; storms to the west of us; storms to the north of us; and storms to the south of us. Amidst the torrents, we got drizzled on. To quote an old saying: “close to, but better than, nothing.”

a damp autumn day

Photo by J. Harrington

Under this morning’s cloudy, drippy skies, we watched a skein of geese in their classic V plus a flock of cranes in a ragged line. That was in addition to several gaggles of geese feeding on a local lawn and two or three (four?) flocks and families of wild turkeys out foraging in the drizzle. Autumn’s urge for going is growing. The preceding observations were made as we headed for the credit union to deposit our 2021 tax rebate check, the one that looks suspiciously like some sort of junk mail or scam. Wouldn’t it be nice if we lived in a world where folks didn’t feel a need to be so skeptical? The last time I emptied my email spam folder, there were more than 250 messages that had accumulated. Sigh!

Despite a number of interesting and appealing new books on the shelves and tables of our favorite local bookstore, located just down the road from the credit union, I uncharacteristically behaved myself. The number of unread and partially read books sitting on my tables and shelves is enough to give even me a slightly guilty conscience. Writers keep writing, poets keep poeting, and publishers keep publishing faster than a guy can read. Definitely not a case of “close to, but better than....” 

Next to the book store is one of the food coops to which we belong and where the Better Half took a walk through to emerge with a bag of “First Kiss” apples (juicy and delicious and traditional deep red) plus a small collection of pumpkin candles that will bring the dining room table more into seasonal alignment. I’m going to have to watch my step. A few more mornings like this and I might end up in a good mood!

September

by John Updike

The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.

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The fields are alive with the sounds of ...

As the dogs and I were taking their after lunch walk along the road today, we got yelled at. No, not by an irate motorist but by a pair of sandhill cranes walking through the neighbor’s hayfield across the road. Apparently we were getting too close for the crane’s comfort so we slowed down and gave them some time to increase the distance separating us. The dogs then finished their business, we turned around and headed back toward the house, and the cranes continued whatever business they were on without further comment.

neighborhood field, sandhill cranes

Photo by J. Harrington

Living where we do, cranes are frequently seen in the neighborhood. We’ve not yet, to our knowledge, had them visit our property. Although that would be nice, and we’re mildly jealous that the neighbors properties are more appealing to cranes than ours have been, seeing cranes up close fairly regularly is a wonderful enrichment to our day-to-day activities.

Canada goose/gander with goslings

Photo by J. Harrington

Before the county “improved” the Hwy 36 bridge over the Sunrise River, and the adjoining roadway, we used to be able to watch for geese and goslings near the bridge at this time of year. An extended guard rail cut off the small piece of field between the road and the marshes, so the geese have gone elsewhere to nest and we no longer get to enjoy watching goslings grow. On the other hand, partially grown goslings are no long as likely to be struck by a passing vehicle doing 55 mph or so. Better for the geese if not for would-be naturalists.

The Sandhills

By Linda Hogan

The language of cranes

we once were told

is the wind. The wind

is their method,

their current, the translated story

of life they write across the sky.

Millions of years

they have blown here

on ancestral longing,

their wings of wide arrival,

necks long, legs stretched out

above strands of earth

where they arrive

with the shine of water,

stories, interminable

language of exchanges

descended from the sky

and then they stand,

earth made only of crane

from bank to bank of the river

as far as you can see

the ancient story made new.

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