Up to my Neck in Riches

Jewelweed,
Impatiens capensis

Crouching here, I can almost sense her watching,
still, from beyond the thick cover of grasses in this shallow arm of water, her babies scattered to every edge, buried in the dense, tangle of green.
A Wood Duck, so very shy of my approach that, even from yards away, she takes to the air—as she sounds the alarm, and disappears into the safety of the woods.

If I could wait, hidden, for her return,
she would be so lovely—
her crested head and white eye patch, the only marks setting her apart from the dark browns and deep greens of this little farm pond.




So, I creep a little closer,
settle a bit lower to the ground,
and bury myself in the translucent green stems of jewelweed drinking from around the rim. Tender leaves glistening with small beads of rain, their pendulous flowers of brilliant orange and red, hanging from just a thread.

(click photos to enlarge!)

Oh, now I’ve done it!
This nest of sleeping spiderlings, awoken—
they run in every direction, screaming,
“Save yourselves!”

For Battle

It is warm under this early summer sun.
Wrapped in heavy jeans, tucked deeply within my boots, I step carefully along, walking the edge of our pond—its few inches of water, rimmed by a brilliant tangle of grass.

Thinking boots alone enough, I walked here days before--the tender green at the edge, inviting. Only to find, instead, that I was greeted by cutting blades, so eager to slash the flesh below my shorts, that, even as I moved slowly and gingerly between them, the tiny barbs caught easily, ripped ungraciously. And, days later, boasted of their conquest in the many red scratches crisscrossing a 12-inch section on both of my legs.

Chased away, I have returned on this day, dressed for battle.
A fine bead of sweat inches its way, tickling, trickling--
beneath my armor, to reach my ankle.
It is in this savage land, defended by blades and swords, that damsels and dragons dwell.

Eastern Pondhawk, female,
emerging from larval skin (exuvia) several minutes earlier

Given

Spring Pond

It seems odd that we would have him here,
the harsh, ratcheting call, clear, as he flies out above the pastures, swallows burbling all around—a kingfisher. Fishing with great gusto from the young trees encroaching upon the pond, he has stayed for almost two weeks--chattering as I walk the edges and sit, watching, from the dock.
Over water we had once thought to make ours—
tending it,
sculpting it,
grooming it,
for, perhaps, swimming.
Until now, having given it over, or more honestly, given it back to its own.

The edges fill, each year a bit more, as dry autumns have opened the banks for eager grasses. And warm summers have turned the shallows, rich and green with growth, to a basin, thick with life.

In order to look delicious to this little dabbling duck—
another new visitor to the pond, given back.
It would seem that in this giving,
it is we who have been given much.

Blue-winged Teal, Anas discors

Easter goose

Before the days turned cold again, I sat here, looking off beyond the dock, to the little tuft of tall field grasses growing just where the pond water splits—half coming from behind the old oak woods, half draining our usually puddled lot of young Sugar Maples.
To a mound, where, every spring, a goose would sit on a nest of eggs, her head low, barely seen. While her mate swam in the shallow water, back and forth, beside her.

Canada Goose pair

By Easter, there’d be goslings, fluffy, yellow, and small—the perfect complement to egg hunts in the lush grass and baskets filled for little girls. From across the water, she’d bring them, six or eight swimming in a row, to feed on the tender green grass of the dam, her mate following closely behind.
But, each spring we’d watch, as this little family grew, day by day, with each crossing, smaller by one. Until, none remained but the mated pair, to move on and return the next year.

I always wondered about them, their defenseless young in a world that feeds upon the most innocent.
The unknown dangers they’d fought against—and lost.
Yet, each year, began again.


I watched, several springs later, the nest, more suddenly emptied than ever before.
As if they’d been taken all at once—the whole family, in the course of just one afternoon.
Shells broken and scattered.
Both goose and gander, gone.

From the thick, snarled grass of the field, far skirting the edge of the pond, she stepped out onto the paved surface of our little country lane.
Behind her, six or eight, walking in a row, to feed on the tender grass--
and never touch the water of the pond.

beside the dock, from below,
rising to surface of pond

click to enlarge!

Common Snapping Turtle, Chelydra serpentina

Dolls and Easter Dresses

Painted Faces

Turtles basking on log across pond

A warm day brings us both out.
The shy turtle I spy from across the pond, from her log, instantly tumbles—a splash!
While I, too, crawl out onto my log of sorts, the small wooden dock extending into the water,
under the warmth of an afternoon sun.
Loving its warmth, we are not so different,
basking on this sunny afternoon.


Beside me, binoculars ready—to scout noses that break the smooth surface of the water.
One by one, each, so quick to turn with a flash beneath me, rises to float in the safety of the open space, far beyond my reach.


We crossed paths just yesterday,
walking slowly as we do, the warm ground soft beneath our feet.
And I stopped to wonder where she might be going,
her cumbersome steps barely forward.
That painted face I so seldom see, hidden within her muddied shell.
I think she thought me rude to sit and wait with her.

“May I help you?”
“Just looking.”

Painted Turtle, Chrysemys picta

From Wikipedia:
"Painted turtles bask because they cannot generate heat or regulate their own body temperature. Instead, they rely on heat from the sun to raise and maintain their body temperature at a level high enough for food in their stomachs to digest efficiently; about 65°F minimum."

Finding Happiness

Frost on Goldenrod Gall

I hate to intrude--
feel that I've walked rudely into a scene, scattering those already there, sending them rushing for cover.
And, many times, catching their hasty exit in flutters and scrambles, I'll drop to sit, quietly without moving, right where I stood, hoping they'll be more forgiving of my carelessness, as a small lump on the ground.
And return, as if I were not there.

Frost on Ground

Yesterday I stepped off my usual path, and strode purposefully out across the grassy banks of the pond, toward the oak woods. Drunken on sunshine from the brightest blue overhead, delighted that this day, even though again sharply cold, had given itself for me to explore, perhaps more eager than I should have been to be out drinking it in, I startled a small flash of blue, and then another from the young trees at the woods’ edge.

And, though the air was cold, I found the grass already dried and warm, and knelt there, wrapped in my dark jacket, still, waiting surrounded by their branches.
Watching bluebirds.
Finding happiness.




We’ve tried for 3 years to attract bluebirds to nesting boxes in our fields, each time finding none. And though our rural area supports them well, we seldom see any on our land.
I wasn’t expecting to find them here at the edge of the oak woods, and had gone outdoors that morning with only a short lens, planning to photograph the very delicate ice left on the Goldenrod by chilly spring nights.

Perhaps this year, ...bluebirds.

View more ABC Wednesdays here!

R.S.V.P.

Winter Pond

The invitation arrives every day--

in the bright spot of sunlight on an otherwise darkened forest floor that perfectly illuminates the first wildflower of spring,

or the freshly laid footprints left in a dusting of snow that lead from a clearing,
and step within,
beyond,

or a fine feather found resting, undisturbed,
beneath the tree you walked past yesterday, without it.



Those moments when, as if accepting an outstretched hand,
we are drawn in--
to see.

please click to enlarge
(tiny hidden detail)

And are held there,
watching.



.

Traces

Great Blue Heron flying over Field

The pond and all around it are still on this frosty morning, glazed with the thinnest of crystals. Lace on the deep and dark, cold water.

From the bank, a heron flies off, never trusting of me to approach without its hurried leaving. Its long legs dragging gracelessly behind as it wrestles against gravity--then slowly overcomes it to circle widely out over the field.


The deer have left their footprints along these paths, too, the ground softer now, and badly tunneled by moles.

What little rain we have gained has barely added a drop to the basin, the edge of the water still falling far short of the cut of the land. In several places along the trail, small locusts show the rubbings of antlers.
They stand, barely alive--mangled uprights, the bark now hanging in shreds.

It all seems so empty on this cold, colorless day.

As if those who visit here are all absent, tucked away somewhere in more warmth. Safely nestled in dens and burrows.
Or flown south.
Because all I find are traces.

I found this well-trod trail leading from the barn, under long grasses, to the field.
Whose might it be?

Skeletons in the Closet

The things we keep buried.
Out of sight, out of mind--until, at a low point, they peek out at us.
And remind us of the past.

October pond

Potential.

I recall speaking those words to my family, again and again, as we walked the property of what would become our "new" southern Ohio home.

Not new, in most respects.
Except, perhaps, the heavy coat of blue paint that literally held the place together. Applied in loving desperation by the older couple no longer able to care for it, in hopes of catching the eye of a new owner--a new caretaker for the 1835 brick farmhouse on 15 rural acres of woods, field and pond.

May pond

The lure of an evolving adventure, the continuation of an already rich history, upon land rolling wild and free...the package had us spellbound.
We moved in, in the summer of ‘92.

While repairs to the old house began, so did our attention to the pond—a leaky, shallow Y-shaped basin formed at the convergence of 2 seasonal creeks crossing the back of the property.
With mud deep enough to bury all sorts of sins.

By the summer of our second year, the August heat warmed the shallow water so greatly, we looked out one day, to find all the fish we’d dreamed of catching on a lazy afternoon—floating, dead at the surface.
The attractive picture we’d remembered from our walk there that first spring, had become the stench that hung on a warm summer breeze.

The fix?
Sculpt a new dam beyond the old, able to contain a greater depth.
A sanctuary from the warming waters of the shallows.
A place where, even in dry months, the water would be cool and able to sustain the lives within.
With a notch carved between the two—their passage to the deep.

old dam with passage to deep water

The rains of spring fill her to the brim.
We look out over long reaching arms, stretching back the edge of the oaks, dotted with wood ducks and the noses of snappers. Fish rise and pluck damselflies from the surface. And a heron steps slowly near the grassy rim and flies up and off.

March pond

Only when the summer wanes and the rains elude us, do we catch a glimpse of the pond of years ago.

Old land is good at keeping secrets.

October pond revealing old dam