A sense of Summer

Welcome. Thanks for the visit. Can you see the dragonfly in the left center of the picture? They're very challenging to photograph. I don't know how some of the photographers who specialize in dragonflies do it. I've had "a thing" for this creature most of my adult life. Have you ever dreamed you were flying, not in a plane, but like a bird, or a dragonfly? I remember dreams like that from my childhood. As I got older I used to enjoy watching dragonfly's flights while I was fly fishing for bluegills and sunfish at Indian Head Pond in Hanover, MA. The rank smell of water, reeds, and muck, or the ok-a-li of a blackbird, often brings back pleasant memories of quiet evenings after work playing catch, and release, with poppers and pan fish. Sometimes, a largemouth bass would be unaccountably tempted to engulf the morsel of a bluegill popper, and I'd have my hands, and wrists, and elbows, and arms full for a few minutes. Another thing that satisfies me about dragonflies is that they eat mosquitoes. I wish they also feasted on wood ticks, but that's life. Despite having a couple of guidebooks, I rarely get a close enough look to be able to identify specific species. It seemed to me that I didn't see as many dragonflies this year as in years past. And as we move more and more into Autumn, I see fewer and fewer dragonflies. Maybe next Summer, when they again helicopter over the back yard and nearby wetlands, I'll be more successful. We live in hope, don't we? I have discovered at least one fascinating web site that includes, among other things, a page on the Meaning of a Dragonfly and What it Symbolizes. And as we're talking about dragonflies and Summer's waning, here's a poem about Summer's end, dragonflies and some of the company they keep.

Redwing Blackbird

By Allison Adelle Hedge Coke

Feet firmly perch

thinnest stalks, reeds, bulrush.

Until all at once, they attend my

female form, streaked throat, brownness.

Three fly equidistant

around me, flashing.

Each, in turn, calls territorial

trills, beckons ok-a-li, ok-a-li!

Spreads his wings, extends

inner muscle quivering red

epaulet bands uniquely bolden.

Turn away each suitor,

mind myself my audience.

Select another to consider,

He in turn quiver thrills.

Leave for insects.

Perhaps one male follows.

Maybe a few brood of young,

line summertime.

Silver Maple samaras

wing wind, spread clusters

along with mine, renewing Prairie.

As summer closes, I leave

dragonflies, damselflies, butterflies,

mosquitoes, moths, spiders, crickets for

grain, see, Sunflower;

join thousands to flock Sky—

grackles, blackbirds, cowbirds,     starlings—

Swarming like distant smoke clouds, rising.

Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.

Locavores' delight

© harrington

© harrington

© harrington

© harrington

© harrington

Welcome. Today was pear picking time. I field tested our new extensible pear (actually fruit) picker and was pleased with how it works. The yield of ripe(ning) pears was then cut up by my much better half and turned into pear honey and pear chutney. My daughter had made some pear honey about a week ago and I found it too sweet for my taste. She likes it and so does my wife. That's important. So is the fact that I get to feel like a real locavore, with fruit coming from the backyard, picked by my own hands holding our new fruit picker. We're trying to figure out how to move more toward permaculture and bioregional living from a fairly standard middle class pattern. Expect more reports along these lines in the future. For now, I'm focused on enjoying the process without being concerned about whether the outcome makes my mouth and stomach happy. For a somewhat different perspective on pears, try this poem by Brenda Hillman.

Trois Morceaux en Forme de Poire

By Brenda Hillman

Titled after Satie

I.

Three pears ripen

On the ledge. Weeks pass.   

They are a marriage.

The middle one’s the conversation   

The other two are having.   

He is their condition.

Three wings without birds,   

Three feelings.

How can they help themselves?

They can’t.

How can they stay like that?   

They can.

II.

The pears are consulting.   

Business is bad this year,

D’Anjou, Bartlett.   

They are psychiatrists,

Patient and slick.

Hunger reaches the hard stem.

It will get rid of them.

III.

The pears are old women;   

They are the same.   

Slight rouge,

Green braille dresses,   

They blush in unison.   

They will stay young.   

They will not ripen.

In the new world,   

Ripeness is nothing.

Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served daily. Sometimes with poetry and pear chutney.