What IS That Grotesqueness?

Traditionally, most of us associate awe and wonder with the beauty of the ocean, but yesterday’s walk on the beach  (where we’re vacationing with siblings and spouses at Ocean Isle, North Carolina) served up a new kind of mystery altogether when I kicked it out of the sandy path through the dunes on the way to water’s edge. 

This ugly thing:

Disgusting words come to mind, by way of description, all of them far from any idea of beauty. It measures about 4x5 inches in width and length, and is about one inch thick. To the touch, it feels like rigid plastic and is very light in weight, as if dried. 

None of us knew what it was, but all offered suggestions of course:

1) An internal organ of some kind

2) A small dolphin’s head. See the jawline?

3) An organ out of an animal

4) Dried skin of an animal

5) “Wooks wike wibber to me,” (in reference to an old family story)

6) Maybe something human.You can see the nerves. 

7) Shoe leather

 I invite any readers to venture guesses in the comment section, or even better, are there any biologists out there who might offer a definitive identification?

Meantime, that old family story: 

   When my older brother, Danny, was very young, he hated liver and onions for supper. To encourage him to taste it one night, my dad told him we were having something new called “gland.”  Danny apparently took one bite and said, “Tastes wike wibber to me.”  

~dkm 10/15/22

The Lure of a Path

What is there more enticing than a path? And few are as welcoming as the one my daughter-in-law Lisa has created through the woods behind their house in Vermont. It has the features you want in a fine path:

1) The invitation of a slightly challenging entrance with a sturdy banister to help you over the ancient stone wall into the woods beyond. Lisa crafted the banister by wedging a fallen branch between adjacent boulders and tree trunks, sure and steady: 

2) A clear route into the unknown:

3) A loyal dog to lead the way:

4) Or two dogs, even better:

5) A good place to drop your glasses for Lisa to find on the next day’s walk:

6)  A bench for a momentary rest…

7) A tree trunk doorway from one level to the next:

8) A rotting foot bridge over a shallow ravine:

9) A new sturdy footbridge across a deeper wider chasm:

10) Natural branch borders to mark the way:

11) Pavers in muddy places:

12) A log to step over here and there:

13) A scattering of lime green ferns to give  you pause…

 …until next visit…

~dkm 10/9/22

Little By Little...

I was lucky enough to be visiting my daughters in Vermont from early September to early October, just the right time to watch the leaf extravaganza. The changes seemed almost imperceptible from one day to the next, but these photos, taken approximately one week apart from the same spot on Hannah and Lisa's deck, show the progress. It happened slowly at first, gaining momentum near the end. Four photos worth 4000 words...still, they don't capture the wonder, the hugeness, the breathtaking splendor. I'll be sorry to "leave" tomorrow, unable to see the final burst of peak color.

Perhaps these pictures are a visual representation of Hannah's healing after her back injury---small daily improvements, with the ultimate success being yet to come. May it be so. 

~dkm 10-6-22

Evensong

I interrupt my plan of posting progressive photos of Vermont’s leaf change to share tonight’s sunset midway through the transformation…

~dkm 10/2/22                                                                                                

Back in Vermont

Here for a month to assist my daughter after a severe back injury, I hope to sneak in another round of manuscript submissions between caregiving activities. This daughter and her wife live on the side of a mountain, looking across the valley to another rim of mountains on the other side. A more inspiring place to live or work or retreat  I cannot imagine. 

Every morning I start here...

...and go here...

...to breathe the breath of the universe and plan our work for the day.

Spectacular time of year for an extended stay in Vermont and to share the changing of the leaves.  But it's more than the color of the leaves. It's the chill of the air, the quietude of the place, the exhilaration that comes when you stand on the edge and take it all in. Breathe deep and join me as I post from the same POV every week to share the visible changes. 

Progress report: One week down, three to go, MRI happened, back somewhat improved, third Covid boosters received, three submissions accomplished, leaves still multiple shades of green. 

~dkm 9-16-22

Pollinators Divine

Just this and nothing more, one sunny morning in my front yard.  It was enough. 

Turn your volume up to hear the buzz. 

~dkm 9/4/22

Chirping Baby Raccoon

On July 19th, tbe raccoon that  has been night-marauding our bird feeders came again, this time with two kits, about 3 months old. Moe chased them off the deck, but one of the kits missed the exit to the steps and got stuck at the far end of the deck, causing it to begin emitting the most forlorn little bleat imaginable. While I’m not a fan of the raccoon night raids, I am a fan of babies, and this frightened little kit was breaking my heart. I had to go for the camera. Prepare to have your heart broken too. 

First video (12 seconds): Finding its way to the steps off the deck

Second video (23 seconds), shot from above: Searching for its mama, but not finding her 

Third video (8 seconds): Trying to come back up the steps (8 seconds)

If the raccoon I wrote about on April 15 was our July 19 mama,  I'm glad we released her in the yard instead of relocating her, even if it means we'll soon have three adult raccoons to outsmart. All of this begs the question: How many raccoons can one backyard support? 

~dkm 7/29/22

Lament for a Fledgling Bluebird

We were excited to meet you,

To know by your speckled breast you had recently fledged,

To watch your daddy feed you and teach you to fend for yourself,

To see your first attempts at perching on the worm feeder alone. 

You were brave and showed new independence each day. 

You can't know what joy you brought us, or what sorrow, 

when we found you on the pavement beneath the feeder,

Perhaps a victim of a hawk or the neighbor's cat.

If it had to be, I hope your demise was swift,

That you didn't feel fear or pain. 

I bury you in the future strawberry bed, twelve inches deep,

Remembering Nick's words for the cardinal he once buried.

"Here lies a good soldier."  

How did he know what to say at age six? 

I don't know what to say today. 

What is there to say about burying a baby bluebird?

Thank you for nourishing our strawberries?

It doesn't seem like enough. 

Twelve times Nick's age, and not half as profound. 

But just as sad. 

~dkm 

It's a Toad! It's a Bird! It's a Fledgling!

I spied it from the kitchen window, then was able to creep oh so close for a better look. 

Though I wasn't lucky enough to see the arrival, it was surely this youngster's virgin flight from the nest. 

The telltale signs–– that it didn't yet know to fear me or my camera––that it sat so long on the banister without moving––that it's tail had not yet grown out.

I'm not sure whose fledgling it was, but my best guess is a song sparrow, having heard one daily for the past two weeks. I'd be grateful if any birding experts who see this would offer a definitive identification. When I got too close, a parent swooped down over my shoulder and together they flew down into the hedge, too fast for me to identify. Brown back and tail feathers, possibly a stripe over eye. Song sparrow? 

 I often saw a single song sparrow foraging for sunflower seeds under the deck feeders, hopping in and out of the thick hedge along the driveway, but I thought it was just for cover near the seed source. Didn't know they had a nest there. Still don't, actually, but I read they do nest near the ground. Already, I don't see or hear them as often, just four days after this fledgling's debut. They've likely moved on to wider explorations in the world. 

That moment of fledge is sacred in bird world. To witness it is a gift from the universe. It comes only once in every bird's lifetime, as they don't return to the nest, once fledged.  

I've written often about nestwatches of bluebirds and house wrens, those that nest in visible places around the yard, and about that breathtaking first foray. It never gets old. Thank you for indulging me again. 

~dkm

Not Welcome Here

The dreaded

brown headed

cowbird. 

Wouldn’t fly away

even when

I clapped and shouted. 

Even when I left and

came back with camera.

You promiscuous parasite you.

You don’t have the decency

to build your own nest

or raise your own young.  

How despicable that your one-time mate has no place to lay her eggs and must place them in the nests of other species, causing that species to feed your greedy big babies to the peril of their own. 

Your photograph today, for just a few minutes,  had me admitting to your glossy beauty, until I read this from Wikipedia:

“Brown-headed cowbirds seem to periodically check on their eggs and young after they have deposited them. Removal of the parasitic egg may trigger a retaliatory reaction termed "mafiabehavior". According to one study the cowbird returned to ransack the nests of a range of host species 56% of the time when their egg was removed. In addition, the cowbird also destroyed nests in a type of "farming behavior" to force the hosts to build new ones. The cowbirds then laid their eggs in the new nests 85% of the time.^[22]”

You are unwelcome here, Mr. Cowbird, not that it makes a difference to you, not that I can do anything about your pillaging behavior. I feel as helpless about protecting my beautiful songbirds from you as I do about protecting Ukrainians from Russian invasion. You are the Putin of bird world, you are. 

~dkm