Blue Wiggle Sneak

We sat on the boulder pitching pebbles into the calm river. Actually, little Gray did all the pitching, while I did the retrieving. Upon returning from my third trip down to the water to re-supply, I saw a blue wiggle sneak up behind my son. Little Gray never saw a thing, he just kept making rings appear on the water. I began to realize that every time I got up to get more rocks, the tiny skink would scurry away down the side of the rock, and by the time I returned he was back, inching ever so close to my son's shadow. I laughed quietly and finally pointed out the curious critter. Gray pointed and smiled like he knew it was there the whole time; then he resumed his practice.

An Almost Biblical Plague

The 13 year cicadas (Brood XIII) emerged this summer in many parts of the US. We have them here in NC. As we've visited different parts of the state this spring and summer, we've noticed different concentrations of the bug eyed bugs. Sometimes they sounded like a cool sci-fi soundtrack in the distance, while other times the noise was akin to the more grating rhythmic clatter-buzz commonly associated with the cyclic wonders. There was one memorable day when we ventured to the Eno River in Durham for a splash. But the brood was so thick and loud, almost unbearably so, that we had to shorten our stay and head for home. The frequency was bad enough to make my teeth hurt. No cliche. On that day I could imagine an almost biblical plague of cicadas. What would I do if we had to endure a full summer of the mind-numbing distraction? We would adapt or go crazy (probably a combination of both).
I immediately slipped into naturalist mode to develop some coping mechanisms. So here is my non-scientific list of silver-linings should you find yourself deep in the heart of a cicada crisis:

1. More cicadas equals more food (for fish, birds, cats, and children who visit science museums)
2. The holes, from whence the cicadas emerged, serve a variety of purposes (aerate the soil, mitigate storm-water runoff, save the ants and worms some work and energy, provide one more opportunity for my little boy to stick his fingers into something)
3. The noise can compete with, sometimes even trump the loudspeaker music blaring from your neighbor's half-deaf teenage rebel son's window (car or bedroom).
4. Of course everyone knows the thrill a young sister gets when she discovers the spooky cicada exoskeleton you quietly perched on her shoulder.
5. The uneaten remains return to the soil to complete the circle of life (great opportunity to introduce this concept to children (or naive friends), thus convincing them that anything bad is actually good and essential to life!)

Well that list should get you started. For now, since the cicadas have not yet emerged within a 5 mile radius of my house, I'll enjoy the peace and quiet. If I need to experience any of the items on the list, I know where to find them.

Enrich The Story

Hello there. Hope you’re doing well. I’m OK. Thanks for asking. Just sitting here on the edge of your photo. You seemed to have focused on the cool guys there in the middle. No worries, I’m used to it by now. I’m just glad you didn’t step on me or crop me out. Yeah, I know I’m different, what with the 9 petals instead of 10. The cool guys in the middle each have 10… big whoop. I get by with 9. At least the pollinators still visit me often, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong, I would love to take center stage from time to time. When I was young I thought I had potential, I mean real superstar potential; the kind that can get you a cover shot in “Wildflower World.” But fate had other plans as petal # 10 wilted away one stormy, overcast day. You could say I lost my flower power in a midday shower. Sometimes I have to joke to make folks feel comfortable around me. But I’m no joke.

I belong here. I have a purpose. My roots hold the soil down just like everyone else. I can make friends with anyone if given a chance. One of my best friends was Miss Daisy. She was a looker and a real sweetie too. But looks can get you booked. Her life was cut short and she was laid to rest in a bright-eyed 4th grader’s flower press book. I guess if there’s an afterlife, that would be a good one. I sure miss her. Just before she was plucked away, she told me something I’ll never forget. She said “Keep your head up kid; you enrich the story of life.”

I’m beginning to understand what she meant. I suppose you could say I balance the composition. Thanks for noticing me.

Every Feather Clean

Stalking the brackish muck, keeping every feather clean and in order, he hides in the marsh grass. You can't get too close to the snowy egret. When you do, he leaps with awkward grace to become the prettiest one in the sky. From a distance you admire him. Up close you respect him.

And So Too the Roost

Edge of town. Edge of the woods. A big wild bird walks a known path, cautiously. The road I'm on crosses his travel route. I stop. He turns and struts awkwardly into the woods.

The first time I saw turkeys in this location, I counted twelve, pecking slowly in the short grass. Sometimes I see mom and chicks. Follow the leader. I only saw the one this evening. Big Tom. Dusk was near. And so too the roost, I assume. He disappeared into the timber.

Standing Dead in the Water

This morning I perched on a fallen timber at the edge of the beaver swamp, camera ready. The slow sun climbed above the distant tree line. As I waited for the swamp to awaken, a shiver came over me; reminded me to blow warm air into my gloved hands.

My seat was a long reclining tree trunk, likely felled in the past 5 years by the beaver whose job it was to make a wetland home. That home I now surveyed with quiet wonder as the vapors condensed in the cold air. A pileated woodpecker ratcheted a morning hello. Another replied. I saw the first chase the second towards the sun. I started thinking more about the trees in the wetland. Many were standing dead in the water. Others, like my seat, were lying dead. I developed a greater appreciation for dead trees this cold morning. The pileated woodpeckers depended on them for food and home. The wood ducks I sought to photograph also depended on them for shelter. Here in the swamp the arboreal sacrifices diversified the habitat, enriched the ecosystem. I found beauty in a tree strewn beaver pond.

There is a conflict to puzzle over. Why in one location is a dead tree a thing of beauty while in another, evidence of harm? As an admirer of trees, I tend towards angst when I find one ravaged at the base, tooth-marked and weeping sap. It isn't a pretty sight, especially in a hardwood forest along the banks of my beloved Eno River. But here in a shallow valley fed by a trickling stream, the result is wholesome and acceptable. I guess the juxtaposition supports the notion that every place has a purpose, as do the things within that place. Sometimes we lose our place and need some redirection.

Well this morning I was glad to be in that place. I hope I didn't intrude too much, leave a nasty mark for the beavers to loath. I didn't see the wood ducks today, maybe too early. I'll try again in a few weeks.

A Traveling Tale

Heading to work the other morning, I walked from the warm house to the cold car and heard the sound from the edge of the yard. A dying high pitched whistle, as a finger once around a crystal rim. In an instant I was on the rocky edge of the trail in Maine, four years back, with Katahdin, mysterious in the distance.

I now listened once more, hand inches from the cold door handle, eyes half closed, ear to the sky, between two places. The White Throated Sparrow was back for the winter. I smiled and drove to work, recalling time in the great north woods.

Funny how a little bird carried that memory to me on weary wings, from its mild summer home up north to its southern winter retreat in my yard. Before my trip to Maine in the summer of '06 I didn't know about the White Throat. But it was there, near tree line in a true wilderness, where the lonesome sound caught my attention, defined a place. The park ranger had confirmed it for me and told of its later departure for warmer winter climates. That winter back south, back home, I heard the sound again. It had new meaning.

I consider it my Maine bird, like a distant relative bringing tales of other lands home for the holidays. It hides in the thinning brush, scratches at the ground leaves, visits the window feeder. When the air is crisp and the sun is low, it sings out a traveling tale.