Repeating, ka-chee, ka-chee
Ovenbird warbler
~dkm 3/365
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| Photo Credit, Hannah Miller |
Can Phoebe be 30?
1 month ago
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
Revising Chapter One
All day overhead
Repeating, ka-chee, ka-chee
Ovenbird warbler
~dkm 3/365
Repeating, ka-chee, ka-chee
Ovenbird warbler
~dkm 3/365
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Monday, July 22, 2019
Astonishment
I knocked down a tree
Rotten but still vertical
Magnificent shock
~dkm 1/365
1/365 Starting a new personal challenge to write a haiku a day for a year in response to a single observation made during my daily outdoor meditation, a spiritual practice I call "long-sitting." This, to keep blogposts from usurping my writing time.
Friday, July 12, 2019
Music of Summer or Eye of Robin
Even in the heat—in the heavy humid stillness that makes your skin sticky with sweat and draws mosquitoes to your ankles, there is beauty to be found in the act of deep listening outdoors on a summer morning.
On a day like today, said beauty is not in one's comfort level, but in the orchestration of summer sounds that invite you to pour yourself an icy glass of garden mint tea, sit, breathe, and read a good piece of fiction. Maybe you only get one chapter in before the mosquitoes drive you inside, but that's long enough to appreciate the sounds of a Georgia summer...
the drone and throb of cicada
the ceaseless chipping of a chipmunk in estrous
the murmur of eastern bluebird faithfully protecting his nest
the slow tyoo-tyoo-tyoo-tyoo of northern cardinal
the distant lazy coo-OO-cooo-cooo of mourning dove
And just now, the whinny of a male robin settling into the grass at my feet, curious enough about the unmoving creature on the swing to hop closer, stand taller, and check me out, eye to eye. A moment to remember, the staring directly into the eye of a robin.
He must have decided I was little threat, for he returned to his worm search.
And I? I swore at the mosquitoes and left, but not without lamenting that it was too damn hot for sitting long outside in Georgia today. ~dkm
On a day like today, said beauty is not in one's comfort level, but in the orchestration of summer sounds that invite you to pour yourself an icy glass of garden mint tea, sit, breathe, and read a good piece of fiction. Maybe you only get one chapter in before the mosquitoes drive you inside, but that's long enough to appreciate the sounds of a Georgia summer...
the drone and throb of cicada
the ceaseless chipping of a chipmunk in estrous
the murmur of eastern bluebird faithfully protecting his nest
the slow tyoo-tyoo-tyoo-tyoo of northern cardinal
the distant lazy coo-OO-cooo-cooo of mourning dove
And just now, the whinny of a male robin settling into the grass at my feet, curious enough about the unmoving creature on the swing to hop closer, stand taller, and check me out, eye to eye. A moment to remember, the staring directly into the eye of a robin.
He must have decided I was little threat, for he returned to his worm search.
And I? I swore at the mosquitoes and left, but not without lamenting that it was too damn hot for sitting long outside in Georgia today. ~dkm
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| Photo Credit, Hannah Miller |
Monday, July 1, 2019
Housewren Puzzle
Can you spot Father Housewren in this photo? He's in plain sight, if you know where to look.
I've been looking for him and his nest since he started singing his heart out on June 3rd in the vicinity of the prickly holly bush in the photo. It's too dense to see into. He sings here all day every day but I've not been able to locate his exact spot.
From past nest watches in more visible places I know the housewren's relentless twittering begins just before his mate lays her eggs, continues through the approximate two weeks of incubation, two more weeks of feeding their hatched nestlings, then stops abruptly on the day the nestlings fledge, which I expect to be any day now.
The song of the male housewren is a remarkable thing to behold, considering his size, how hard he has to work to produce it, and its perpetual nature while he's protecting a nest. Some even consider it annoying for its non-stop repetition. One member of my morning coffee and yoga group who has appreciated the exuberance of his song has characterized the egg phase as, "Oh, joy, I'm going to be a father," the nestling phase as, "Oh how I love being a father," and today's frenetic tone as, "Oh thank goodness, they're leaving soon." Any parent can identify.
This morning Mr. Housewren sang so loudly and so ceaselessly I was powerless but to stand long and peer into the bush toward the source of the sound. If one stands still enough and searches long enough, bingo. Here's the same photo from above, blown up and cropped, in case you, like me, couldn't spot him at first. ~dkm
I've been looking for him and his nest since he started singing his heart out on June 3rd in the vicinity of the prickly holly bush in the photo. It's too dense to see into. He sings here all day every day but I've not been able to locate his exact spot.
From past nest watches in more visible places I know the housewren's relentless twittering begins just before his mate lays her eggs, continues through the approximate two weeks of incubation, two more weeks of feeding their hatched nestlings, then stops abruptly on the day the nestlings fledge, which I expect to be any day now.
The song of the male housewren is a remarkable thing to behold, considering his size, how hard he has to work to produce it, and its perpetual nature while he's protecting a nest. Some even consider it annoying for its non-stop repetition. One member of my morning coffee and yoga group who has appreciated the exuberance of his song has characterized the egg phase as, "Oh, joy, I'm going to be a father," the nestling phase as, "Oh how I love being a father," and today's frenetic tone as, "Oh thank goodness, they're leaving soon." Any parent can identify.
This morning Mr. Housewren sang so loudly and so ceaselessly I was powerless but to stand long and peer into the bush toward the source of the sound. If one stands still enough and searches long enough, bingo. Here's the same photo from above, blown up and cropped, in case you, like me, couldn't spot him at first. ~dkm
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
Bumble Bee Art
Three fleeting touchdowns on the deck table resulted in a work of art by a bumble bee taking advantage of Georgia's extreme spring pollen cover.
I lucked into seeing the artist at work through the kitchen window, a gift entirely unbidden. While I've learned to expect the unexpected in my longsitting sessions, I'm especially delighted by spontaneous noticings like this one, not actively sought. I was simply having a moment of zen over coffee at the kitchen window.
p.s. Photographed and written on March 30, 2019. Technical difficulties caused my late posting, hence the seeming wrong time for pollen season. Pollen's all gone by now.
I lucked into seeing the artist at work through the kitchen window, a gift entirely unbidden. While I've learned to expect the unexpected in my longsitting sessions, I'm especially delighted by spontaneous noticings like this one, not actively sought. I was simply having a moment of zen over coffee at the kitchen window.
One slow fly-over with three sweeping drops onto the pollen ridden tabletop. Must have been pollen nirvana for a bee, but she looked for all the world like an artist deliberately applying brush strokes to her canvas. Behold, the art she left in her wake. ~dkm
p.s. Photographed and written on March 30, 2019. Technical difficulties caused my late posting, hence the seeming wrong time for pollen season. Pollen's all gone by now.
Wednesday, May 22, 2019
Twitter of Wren, Flutter of Wing, Riffle of Page
You can hear quiet things you don't ordinarily hear if you sit outside silently enough, still enough, long enough, and near enough to the place where the sounds are made. Even if you can't predict what you'll hear ahead of time. Wing-flutter for instance.
I've been on the backyard swing most of the morning, fully engaged in a fiction writing project as well as "House Wren Nestwatch, 2019." The wrens are in the copper-roofed birdhouse across the yard from the swing, the same house that has fledged bluebird families in past years. The fiction is in my laptop, a project unrelated to the house wrens.
Like all bird pairs I've watched, the house wrens inspire me for their fierce protection and diligent feeding of their young, and in the case of the house wren, for the father's perpetual bubbly song. I marvel at the length of his twitter when he's protecting his family. Or is he simply so proud he can't contain himself? You wouldn't think a bird that tiny could get enough air in his lungs to sustain his seconds-long song.
Then came the unexpected pleasure I've come to expect when sitting outside. I was revising a passage about a certain bookish character's snores sounding like the pages of a book riffling through her fingers, when amazingly, I heard the actual sound I was describing. At first I thought I was so lost in story that I imagined the hearing.
But no. The sound came again and again. Turned out to be a cardinal pair on the top bar of the swing above my head. By their consistent landings and takings off, they must surely be feeding young nearby, as the house wrens are, but I haven't been able to discern the location of their nest.
They're clever that way.
Like most people, I've noticed the characteristic squeaky wing-flap of mourning doves, or a robin's whinny as it flaps, and I've written a past blogpost about the click of a male bluebird's wings when chasing a squirrel from his nest, but I'm not sure I've ever heard the simple and common flutter of a cardinal's wings before today. Both in the coming and going, the rush of air through the feathers sounded like the riffle of the pages of a book, only slower and louder. Almost a clacking sound, as if the feathers are brittle, but not exactly.
So I guess this is why I don't often write about things I hear. Not that I don't hear as well as see more things when paying attention, just that sound is harder to describe. A cardinal's wing-flutter, for instance, despite how common, is beyond my ability to capture in words—for its breathtaking grandeur.
Until next sound takes me by surprise, dkm
I've been on the backyard swing most of the morning, fully engaged in a fiction writing project as well as "House Wren Nestwatch, 2019." The wrens are in the copper-roofed birdhouse across the yard from the swing, the same house that has fledged bluebird families in past years. The fiction is in my laptop, a project unrelated to the house wrens.
Like all bird pairs I've watched, the house wrens inspire me for their fierce protection and diligent feeding of their young, and in the case of the house wren, for the father's perpetual bubbly song. I marvel at the length of his twitter when he's protecting his family. Or is he simply so proud he can't contain himself? You wouldn't think a bird that tiny could get enough air in his lungs to sustain his seconds-long song.
Then came the unexpected pleasure I've come to expect when sitting outside. I was revising a passage about a certain bookish character's snores sounding like the pages of a book riffling through her fingers, when amazingly, I heard the actual sound I was describing. At first I thought I was so lost in story that I imagined the hearing.
But no. The sound came again and again. Turned out to be a cardinal pair on the top bar of the swing above my head. By their consistent landings and takings off, they must surely be feeding young nearby, as the house wrens are, but I haven't been able to discern the location of their nest.
They're clever that way.
Like most people, I've noticed the characteristic squeaky wing-flap of mourning doves, or a robin's whinny as it flaps, and I've written a past blogpost about the click of a male bluebird's wings when chasing a squirrel from his nest, but I'm not sure I've ever heard the simple and common flutter of a cardinal's wings before today. Both in the coming and going, the rush of air through the feathers sounded like the riffle of the pages of a book, only slower and louder. Almost a clacking sound, as if the feathers are brittle, but not exactly.
So I guess this is why I don't often write about things I hear. Not that I don't hear as well as see more things when paying attention, just that sound is harder to describe. A cardinal's wing-flutter, for instance, despite how common, is beyond my ability to capture in words—for its breathtaking grandeur.
Until next sound takes me by surprise, dkm
Thursday, May 9, 2019
Birds of Blue
If I've ever said on this blog (and I think I have) that I defended bluejays for their beauty against complaints of their scavenging habits, I take it all back. I was of the opinion, based on what I'd read, that they only robbed eggs from other birds' nests in extreme conditions.
Moments ago, I observed, not 30 feet from where I'm sitting, two bluejays fighting in my very backyard over a dead nestling of a species I couldn't identify—grayish, not many feathers, big head, yellow beak, possibly a robin. One of the jays landed on the grass with the poor thing in its beak. The other arrived immediately after, stole the prey in a flapping kerfuffle, and flew off with it. The first jay followed in close pursuit.
I'd like to think they found it already dead and only took it as carrion, but I suspect they stole it from somebody's nest.
I know, of course, that one has to take the brutality with the beauty, if one is to sit in the backyard extolling the wonders of nature, but oh, oh, oh, that bit of brutality was more than I could love, given my intention on this particular day to watch a bluebird couple feeding their four scrappy new fledgelings, and to blog about it.
I'll not be able to rid my memory of the image of that nestling flopping around in the beaks of those jays. After witnessing the incident, I can't help but lump bluejays into the same "basket of deplorables" along with brown-headed cowbirds and bleached blonde bully tweeters. Did I just get too political for a nature blog? I don't think so. As Muti used to say, "I can if I want to." ~dkm
Moments ago, I observed, not 30 feet from where I'm sitting, two bluejays fighting in my very backyard over a dead nestling of a species I couldn't identify—grayish, not many feathers, big head, yellow beak, possibly a robin. One of the jays landed on the grass with the poor thing in its beak. The other arrived immediately after, stole the prey in a flapping kerfuffle, and flew off with it. The first jay followed in close pursuit.
I'd like to think they found it already dead and only took it as carrion, but I suspect they stole it from somebody's nest.
I know, of course, that one has to take the brutality with the beauty, if one is to sit in the backyard extolling the wonders of nature, but oh, oh, oh, that bit of brutality was more than I could love, given my intention on this particular day to watch a bluebird couple feeding their four scrappy new fledgelings, and to blog about it.
I'll not be able to rid my memory of the image of that nestling flopping around in the beaks of those jays. After witnessing the incident, I can't help but lump bluejays into the same "basket of deplorables" along with brown-headed cowbirds and bleached blonde bully tweeters. Did I just get too political for a nature blog? I don't think so. As Muti used to say, "I can if I want to." ~dkm
Monday, April 22, 2019
"How Shining and Festive..."
It seems too ordinary to write about
Morning sunlight
On leaves
Yet there's not a whit of ordinariness to it
If you but still yourself
And pay attention
To the shades of green, from lime to almost black
The light transparency of some
The heavy opacity of others
To the odd variety of depth and pattern and shape
Flat layers, bunchy clumps
Hanging cascades
To the trembling flutters that move in waves
The lung-filling freshness
The shimmering hugeness.
The extraordinary wonder of it all
Is as close as I get to prayer
And recalls a poem
I once read, if I can find it...I did!
Surprised me then, too
The nod to prayer
~dkm
Look and See
by Mary Oliver
This morning, at waterside, a sparrow flew
to a water rock and landed, by error, on the back
of an eider duck; lightly it fluttered off, amused.
The duck, too, was not provoked, but, you might say, was
laughing.
This afternoon a gull sailing over
our house was casually scratching
its stomach of white feathers with one
pink foot as it flew.
Oh Lord, how shining and festive is your gift to us, if we
only look, and see.
Morning sunlight
On leaves
Yet there's not a whit of ordinariness to it
If you but still yourself
And pay attention
To the shades of green, from lime to almost black
The light transparency of some
The heavy opacity of others
To the odd variety of depth and pattern and shape
Flat layers, bunchy clumps
Hanging cascades
To the trembling flutters that move in waves
The lung-filling freshness
The shimmering hugeness.
The extraordinary wonder of it all
Is as close as I get to prayer
And recalls a poem
I once read, if I can find it...I did!
Surprised me then, too
The nod to prayer
~dkm
Look and See
by Mary Oliver
This morning, at waterside, a sparrow flew
to a water rock and landed, by error, on the back
of an eider duck; lightly it fluttered off, amused.
The duck, too, was not provoked, but, you might say, was
laughing.
This afternoon a gull sailing over
our house was casually scratching
its stomach of white feathers with one
pink foot as it flew.
Oh Lord, how shining and festive is your gift to us, if we
only look, and see.
Saturday, February 16, 2019
Chicken House
Kindness dwells in this place
This place of solo retreat
This chicken house on a farm by a lake in the woods
The kindness of the muses
Of the Andersons
Of the universe
Chicken house
Turned antique store
Turned guest house
Furnishings restored, preserved
Medieval desk, begging questions
How many have written here? Who has? What was?
Deep grooves, worn edges, ink stains
Antique writing table
Muses wait here, Calliope, Clio, Euterpe
Sleigh bed, camel-back trunk
Corner chair, high-back bench
Mantel of family photos, mantle of pride, love, memory, history
Hearth of copper ash bucket, kindling box
Glass cabinet of Chinese pottery, classic books
Kent's pots of earth and wheel and kiln and soul
Turned, glazed, baked
Kent's paint-splat heart, unfolded
Anderson heart
Noses Creek School of Art
Studio, quiet now, but full
Of heart, spirit, vision, purpose
Lure of art and fish
Orderly, meditative, inviting, unique
Wagon full of iron castoffs, welder's gold
Kent's giant iron sculpture of not rooster, great blue heron
Barn and shed, machine and tool
Four houses: chicken, pool, family, green
Host Tate, twin proprietor, silent protector, museum docent
Kindly understated invitations, reminders, hospitality
Vast knowledge, rapid-fire facts, origin details to the number of million years
Low-light room, bright-light beam, mineral showcase
Iridescent rocks, gifts of the earth, "Been there but didn't get it there"
Civil war relics, framed, displayed
Greenhouse orchids, hundreds, some always in bloom
Generous cuttings, gifts for the chicken house
Anderson heart
Twin lakes, upper, lower, dam and spillway between, one mile around
Boggy places, spongy, wet, black, beauty
Tranquil, ever changing, by shifts of sun, cloud, wind, hour
Colors, ripples, sparkles, patterns, on-again-off-again glass
Colossal dragonfly welcoming, belted kingfisher ratcheting
Firepit warming, rowboat waiting beside the still waters
Natural woods, fallen trees, double kindness
Of the earth, to provide animal harbors
Of the Andersons, not to remove them
Randy's Trail, faded sign, found branches
Leads walkers along near banks of lake
Twin foot bridges, wooden arches, in fond memoriam
Invites hikers to far banks, steep climbs, no paths
One could lose a phone here and never know it
Here are deep leaves, tender twigs, tough branches
Downed trunks, upturned roots
Lichen growths, nature's housekeepers, earth's consumers
Supreme quiet, divine solitude
Return to chicken house, low roof, quaint windows
Kent's hinged gate, iron art
Stone wall, brick walk, full-on charm
Camellia shrubs, full-on bloom
Birdsong unfettered
Eastern phoebe, northern cardinal, northern mockingbird
Tufted titmouse, redwing blackbird
Urgent racket overhead, sandhill cranes
Flying north to mate, full-on migration
The kindness of this place
The noisy silence
Gifts of time, gratitude, grace
Aloud reading, Mozart playing, deep breathing, slow walking
Long sitting, wide thinking, layered writing
Eighteenth draft
~dkm
This place of solo retreat
This chicken house on a farm by a lake in the woods
The kindness of the muses
Of the Andersons
Of the universe
Chicken house
Turned antique store
Turned guest house
Furnishings restored, preserved
Medieval desk, begging questions
How many have written here? Who has? What was?
Deep grooves, worn edges, ink stains
Antique writing table
Muses wait here, Calliope, Clio, Euterpe
Sleigh bed, camel-back trunk
Corner chair, high-back bench
Mantel of family photos, mantle of pride, love, memory, history
Hearth of copper ash bucket, kindling box
Glass cabinet of Chinese pottery, classic books
Kent's pots of earth and wheel and kiln and soul
Turned, glazed, baked
Kent's paint-splat heart, unfolded
Anderson heart
Noses Creek School of Art
Studio, quiet now, but full
Of heart, spirit, vision, purpose
Lure of art and fish
Orderly, meditative, inviting, unique
Wagon full of iron castoffs, welder's gold
Kent's giant iron sculpture of not rooster, great blue heron
Barn and shed, machine and tool
Four houses: chicken, pool, family, green
Host Tate, twin proprietor, silent protector, museum docent
Kindly understated invitations, reminders, hospitality
Vast knowledge, rapid-fire facts, origin details to the number of million years
Low-light room, bright-light beam, mineral showcase
Iridescent rocks, gifts of the earth, "Been there but didn't get it there"
Civil war relics, framed, displayed
Greenhouse orchids, hundreds, some always in bloom
Generous cuttings, gifts for the chicken house
Anderson heart
Twin lakes, upper, lower, dam and spillway between, one mile around
Boggy places, spongy, wet, black, beauty
Tranquil, ever changing, by shifts of sun, cloud, wind, hour
Colossal dragonfly welcoming, belted kingfisher ratcheting
Firepit warming, rowboat waiting beside the still waters
Natural woods, fallen trees, double kindness
Of the earth, to provide animal harbors
Of the Andersons, not to remove them
Randy's Trail, faded sign, found branches
Leads walkers along near banks of lake
Twin foot bridges, wooden arches, in fond memoriam
Invites hikers to far banks, steep climbs, no paths
One could lose a phone here and never know it
Here are deep leaves, tender twigs, tough branches
Downed trunks, upturned roots
Lichen growths, nature's housekeepers, earth's consumers
Supreme quiet, divine solitude
Return to chicken house, low roof, quaint windows
Kent's hinged gate, iron art
Stone wall, brick walk, full-on charm
Camellia shrubs, full-on bloom
Birdsong unfettered
Eastern phoebe, northern cardinal, northern mockingbird
Tufted titmouse, redwing blackbird
Urgent racket overhead, sandhill cranes
Flying north to mate, full-on migration
The kindness of this place
The noisy silence
Gifts of time, gratitude, grace
Aloud reading, Mozart playing, deep breathing, slow walking
Long sitting, wide thinking, layered writing
Eighteenth draft
~dkm
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