Cowbird Dance

A black, predawn morning was soon split by fuchsia streaks that foretold a coming rain. An omen known since the first sunrise and sunset was pronounced "good,"  a  "saying" spoken of by Jesus and used by people since the dawn of time (pun intended) to make plans for the day, "red at morning, sailor's warning; red at night, sailor's delight," proved true this morning.   
Thundering rain was followed by a misty fog that pushed us back toward bed only to be pulled, again to the window, by turkeys that gobbled in response to each thunder clap. 
Once the rain stopped and my internet recovered, I gathered my "office" consisting of a tray with a carafe of green tea, my teacup and saucer from Patty, with my computer, tucked tightly under my arm and went out to the picnic table on the porch. Because it is a cool morning I have on my twenty-four year old corduroy winter coat and have a blanket, quilted by my sister, wrapped snugly around my legs.  "How could that be worth it?" you might ask. Because, this is where things are happening.
This is where a pair of Carolina wrens is building their nest. It's where Robins sing their greetings to each other and to the day. 
It's also where a pair of Brown-headed cowbirds have chosen to dance their way to romance.

With movements that resembled many human folk dances, the birds mirrored each other's action or took turns with their steps.

Through short flight from branch, or a bob of its head, each bird made its intentions known.

This was my favorite move.

Yes, I am happy to be here, bundled as I am, happy to hear the drum of Woodpeckers, the call of Phoebes, the dong of chimes and the caw of distant crows.

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DAWN BREAKS

The call of Red-bellied wood peckers pierce the morning

As the focal sphere pierces the dawn,

fighting obliteration by clouds that promise a shower.

The clouds give way allowing the sun to blind and bathe me,

Even as drops of water

compete with the light for a spot on the grass.

I hear the drops but as yet only feel the sun.

The birds, too, ignore the tapping rain,

calling to each other;

The raspy nagging of the titmouse,

The distant caw of my friends, the crows,

and the closer deep squeak of the nuthatch

as it heads downward on the dark trunk of a lichen-covered oak.

(Dawn Breaks,  Written by Nelle Howard, November 2009. All photographs by Nelle Howard)

Oh. . . Wow.

I heard Jeff's muffled, "Looks like it might be a nice sunrise." 

One of this season's understatements.

I really had other things I wanted to do but I crawled across the bed and pulled back the curtain. . . .

Ohhh. . . Look. . . 

Then in full-speed mode my feet went into my slippers - never mind that they were on the wrong feet.
I snatched a camera, yanking off the lens cap as I went out the door.

Click. . . a few adjustments to the camera then, click,

. . . click,

. . . click.    
I slowly scanned the eastern hilltop. Light and color evolved quickly with each passing second.  I wanted it all.
Click . . .

. . .click,

. . . click.
Lavender, pink, hot pink, amber, blazing gold, red and orange;
black trees glowed against a neon backdrop. 
I need more words. Does some other language have better words to describe this sunrise?
Click . . .

Realizing I had fallen into that bottomless desire that hits most photographers at sunset, sunrise, the beach, and when we stare out the window of an airplane, I tried to stop. . . but couldn't.
Click. . .

. . . click, one last time.  I stood there a moment, part of the scene, imagining an invisible photographer behind me clicking away while my silhouette stood, dark, like branches of the trees,  outlined against a new creation.

Ohhh. . . Look.

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Worms

Good Morning!
No sun yet.
Still stars.

Not day.

Still night.

Still night.

Can’t sleep.

Don’t try.

"Come out with us."

The peepers cry.

Slippers and coat,

I sit in the field.

Look into darkness.
See gray shadows on black.

Behind me a robin
gives the first cry.
Then another and more
abandon trees for the sky.

As black turns to steel
then steel to pink glow,
a "fwoomp" of feathers behind me.
The early bird gets the worm.
You know.

The morning darkness called me out of bed. What had felt like the curse of a sleepless night turned into a blessing as I was allowed to see the dawning of what felt like the first Spring day. The calendar says a few more weeks until Spring, but the robins say "Now!" As the daylight expanded, the woods exploded robins onto the hay field and over the yard. Perhaps the worms are to blame. Thousands of worms a few inches below the ground's surface had received a message hidden from mere humans. The message said, "Today will be warm. Come to the light and see what awaits." Well, what waited for many was the quick snatch of a robin's bill. The birds who had impatiently huddled in the woods, waiting for winter to end were finally being rewarded with a breakfast that was to continue through the day.

Early Morning

Snow crunching beneath my feet sounds like soldiers marching but I am an army of one armed with wool socks, fluffy coat zipped up over my chin, hat, two pair gloves and one pair of mittens. I only wear one mitten, keeping my right hand free to manipulate my camera. I march forward across the field, no enemy but the cold.  Soon I am joined by the dawn fighting off darkness and cold.

There is no chance to hear sounds other than crunching steps and my own breath blowing warm into my coat with moisture that quickly fogs up my glasses.

I have a destination. I want to stand in the field at the top of the hill to greet the sun as its first rays touch my face.   It's still too dark to enter the woods. Snow covered holes and deadfalls would be far too dangerous for me with my habit of looking everywhere but where my next step is landing.   No, once I get to the right spot, I am content to stand and wait, becoming colder with each  passing moment.  It is not long before I am rewarded with the first rosey glow of day, matching the glow of my chilled cheeks.

I didn't stand there long until my feet decided for me that it was time to start walking.  Turning away from the sunrise I headed into the trees.  Landmarks are different when covered with snow, but it wasn't long before I found the path which would lead me to the animal den.  There were plenty of tracks going the same direction as me.  As well as deer tracks, there several others including a tiny animal not heavy enough to sink into the snow. There was also a heavier small animal whose belly or tail dragged along making its own track between the paw prints. Expectantly, there were also prints from a dog-like animal.  Those veered off the trail the same time I did.

 I followed them right to the den opening.  It was only one of four openings.  I couldn't tell if it was four openings for one den,or maybe four separate dens.

One opening went into the ground at the base of a tree It was a small opening with several tracks leading into in.  This opening was a few feet downhill from a larger opening above, but just a couple feet from an even smaller one.

This smaller opening had no tracks connecting it to the hole beneath the tree but there were several paths leading from both the smaller downhill opening to the larger opening shown in the photo below.  I decided that it was probably two dens each with two "doorways."

There were also a path leading from this large opening leading to the tree.Just beyond this large doorway was another small hole with prints leading both in and out of the hole.

I would love help in identifying who lives in these holes.  I still believe it to be some coyotes.
Whatever was living beneath me chose to stay there, avoiding the ruckes above its home.  I can imagine a couple animals huddled tightly together for warmth as they lie very still hoping that the human clomping above them will quickly leave.

Once back onto the mowed path, I  stopped to listen, hearing the birds awakening as they fluttered from tree to bush to find food. 

There was enough light now to see their silhouettes in the treetops. 

I continued around the woods then along the hill edge and back out into the hay field.   Along the way  was this spot where a deer had dug through the snow in an effort to find something to eat below.  The deer will eat the tiniest seeds, delicately picking them up with their sensitive lips

Upon reaching the field, the world opened up with both space and light. 

Sunlight scattered across the snow treating each flake as its own prism, sparkling with silver, red, blue and every color of the spectrum.  As the light stretched across the plane shadows formed, turning average trees into tall giants. 

Even the power plant was floating in an cheery pink glow proving that beauty may be found anywhere as a jet races overhead, oblivious to the beauty below its luminous wings.

                                                             

Brighten the Day!

Monochromatic is not my style. Fit in with my surroundings? I don't think so.  Many of us want to stand out from the crowd; that's normal but the world, our community, our friends want us to fit in. So I try.

Color, though. Color is where I draw the line. I don't want my colors to "fit in." I want my colors to announce their presence.  Beige begs for a barrage of red. Or blue. Green. Or yellow. Eggshell and ecru elicit a call for verdant green or aquamarine.

I want my colors to surprise me. They will probably surprise you as they sometimes do my friends such as when I wear my pink glasses.

The oversized pink spectacless  perplexed Peter, who promptly proclaimed,  "Harry Caray." Or was that, perhaps, a proposal of "hari kari"? (Please pardon my p's. I couldn't prevent their pull.)

While I rejoice in the many hues of brown defining the trees of the woods and am calmed by the gray fluff of the clouds on a sunless day, how wonderful to come upon a splash of brightness against dull leaves and grass in early spring when my heart hungers for color.

This quest for unexpected color is what makes me keep hanging the garden's dogwood tree with strands of bright glass, marbles and mirrors. They aren't natural. Some might say that they don't belong in the garden, distracting the eye from the familiar leaves and flowers. It is that unexpectedness that that I love; the surprise as the sunlight bounces off a tiny mirror or shines through a red marble.

You might ask what has made me babble on about color.  It's the snow.  I love snow, but the white has become a bit too much.  Nature hides from me under this blanket of white. This morning I want to see something else.  I want to give you, the reader, something besides the glitter of snow. The clear lines of gray, brown and white that drew me last week have become mundane. They are expected.  I stare out the window at the birds, thanking God for choosing to dress the blue jay and the cardinal in their gaudy plumage.

As I write these words, light begins to come through the window so the sun must be coming up. I'll go take a peek to see what the day brings. . . .The next moment finds me outside in slippered feet, witnessing a sky that is more than gray.  It is cool blue fading to lavender and mauve then torn, exposing a flash of coral tinged with gold.  Even the snow is no longer white.

Pale powder blue, it lies beneath the sky daring me to call it boring, mundane, monochromatic.

As I turn to run inside before my toes become ice, one last bit of color greets me welcoming me into the warmth that is home.

The Day Leaves Darkness Behind

The call of Red-bellied wood peckers pierce the morning
As the focal sphere pierces the dawn,

fighting obliteration by clouds promising a shower.

The clouds give way allowing the sun to blind and bathe me.

Even as drops of water

compete with the light for a spot on the grass.

I hear the drops but as yet only feel the sun.

The birds, too, ignore the tapping rain

calling to each other;

The raspy nagging of the titmouse,

The distant caw of my friends, the crows,
and the closer deep squeak of the nuthatch
as it heads downward on the dark trunk of a lichen-covered oak.

This morning I knew I needed to hurry if I wanted to beat the rain, so I dressed quickly, grabbed a couple cameras, and a chair then almost sprinted up the small hill in the field arriving just in time to welcome the sun.

Setting my chair beside the small impression where, beneath several feet of dirt, lay Peach, eternally sleeping on her flannel-covered dog bed surrounded by her toys and stuffed animals, I relaxed knowing good things would follow. 

I thought of Peach, a long lost friend, who gained her name when I misunderstood my daughter as she tried to call the new puppy "Petrie." The name fit her though, for soft and sweet she was, lounging by the side of her family as only a hound can do.  That relaxed, body would stretch the length of a bed, hiding the potential energy which easily could outrace a car or my husband chasing her after planning to lock her in the house while we attempted a family outing, leaving her behind.

Many mornings I had sat at this very spot with Peach leaning against my thigh as we watched the world together. 

This morning, once the sun had blazenly risen, then retreated behind the gray clouds, I walked back to the house through the garden. Though we have had several frosts, and even a hard freeze, the cold has been followed by several weeks of warm nights and sunny days.  My garden is attempting to defy the shortening days.  There is new growth everywhere.  Japanese painted ferns have resprouted, perhaps drawing heat from the rock which serves as a backdrop to their fall showing of silver, green and maroon. I welcomed them as I would welcome an unexpected guest on a dreary morning.

Even the banana trees speared their way through a mulching of leaves. I cut them down three weeks ago fully expecting the trees to go dormant.  I wish now that I had protected them from the freezing temperature, allowing the tropical plant to mature a bit longer.  I see my friend, Melonie, in Georgia, has cut fruit from her banana trees this year.  If the warming trend continues a few more years, perhaps we'll even have some bananas in the mid Ohio valley.  

I love these banana trees. It is because they are so incongruous here in West Virginia.  They found their way into the garden a few years ago when my mother and I visited The Glass House Works in Stuart, Ohio.  The Glass House Works is a nursery that sends unusual plants  to other nursuries all over the world.  Through the years I have visited it frequently gleaning ideas and plants. At one time the owners had a very ambitious Japanese style garden situated between two old homes. By Japanese, I don't mean the Zen, minimalist style garden.  No, this garden was full of plants.  It was shaped by the idea that every inch should be occupied by planned growth. Every nook and crannie had a plant wedged in. Paths led us across bridges, around small ponds and to dead ends that were anything but dead.  The wonderful messy-ness whelmed with growth.  I was inspired.  My own garden plans were reinvigorated. 

It was on one of these visits that a worker introduced me to a variety of hardy banana tree that the owner had discovered.  They had two small plants for sale for $10.00 each. I took one with instructions to be sure to mulch thickly each winter then keep watch in the spring.  That first spring, about five years ago, rewarded me with a banana tree that grew about 10 feet tall and even multipled.  Since then every summer brings more trees.  This spring I transplanted one to a mowed sunny spot  out in the woods.  Hopefully, next year visitors may be surprised as they walk the wooded path then come upon a bit of the tropics.  I'll let you know what happens.