A Time of Apple Blossoms and Bluebirds (SWF)

Apple Blossom Rain

Beyond the grass, a long, spindly branch, dotted with lichens, and heavy beneath a small cluster of blossoms at its tip,
reaches out from an old apple tree--
its gnarled trunk struggling now against a large ash, sprouted years ago beside it, and pinning it between its own younger and wider base and a fencepost, propped with stones.
Its purpose, long past, the aging apple.

A remnant from the time when this land and the surrounding acres were farmland.
When broad pastures and the land between them were home to Bluebirds—feeding from the short grass, raising broods of young within holes left by others in the woods’ plentiful dead and dying trees.

Perched from posts,
to glean below, and return.

Before the pastures were turned to home sites,
and the few dead trees left standing filled with more urban, invasive birds.


The nesting boxes on the hill, this year, again are empty—our attempts to be helpful, refused, it would seem. And though the Tree Swallows, soon to arrive, will delight me daily, fly-catching against an evening light, I wait for Bluebird blue—a shade like no other.
If I should name a color, fallen sky.

Bluebird pair on fence posts
(male left, female right)

Bluebird female in grass

Bluebird male on fence posts

Last week I watched,
back and forth,
from post to post,
to ground and back.

And again, days later, still, they stay.
Returning often, as they feed, and fly off.
To somewhere, beyond the grass.

Bluebird male on post

They rest in the busy branches of the ash overhead,
touch briefly the old, reaching apple--
whose few frail fingers, beckon to Bluebirds.

Bluebird male in Ash Tree

Yay--found the nest!
Female Bluebird on branch outside nest hole
in broken locust snag beside another old apple.
(approx. 10' above ground, 6" below top)

See more Skywatch here.

Making Tracks (SWF)

Sway-backed Barn, Rural Ohio

We went “out” last weekend—
not in the typical way that one might speak of a weekend’s plan.
But, rather, “out,” as in, beyond the closest places, to those yet unfound delights,
waiting further down the road.

Dillon Reservoir

Hoping to add to our growing list, another place to spend a day on the water.
A place with the promise of ragged shorelines to trace, shallow winding backwater to float upon.
A place where underwater snags and overhanging boughs bring things of all sorts within arm’s reach.
A place to which we’d soon return, when brighter skies and warmer air would be more accepting of one sitting on the open water—
barefoot, in a little red canoe.

Gull and Heron tracks along the lowered water line

Criss-crossing tracks, where something came from the water, wandered around, and returned.
Any ideas?
(see photo at end of post for scale)

Raccoon prints and
others

But, today, just making tracks.

Evening Sky at Dillon Reservoir

These tiny tracks reminded me of turtle tracks, but seem too small.
I'd love to know what made them!

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The Old Barn, in a Good Light

The Old Barn,
In a Good Light

Every day begins the same, facing west.
From my seat in the corner of the kitchen, I look out toward woods I cannot yet see, the day’s sun waiting behind me, across the yard.
Broad hickories and spindly locusts stand as black forms reaching tall,
arm in arm, into the deepest blue to say,
“This day will be a fair one.”

Through these trees each evening, I watch the last glimpse of the day’s light slip into the horizon with a great and colorful splash, while dinner bubbles and boils on the stove.
Then, moonlight until morning.
And the next begins, again.

The sun’s rising, though, I almost never see.
Except what light, from behind the barn, sneaks past to tint the tips of the trees, on that fair day—a perfect pink.




And if I rush to the edge of the yard,
and catch it creeping onto the fields,
I find it peeks into the dim east barn windows.

Sunrise on Barn

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Becoming Round (SWF)

Behind the pond and beyond a barbed wire fence, I can walk out onto the farmland bordering our property. Here, the tall oaks draw a noticeable line where untamed grass and scrub meet furrowed field. And I can stand with feet in both places—shelter and a yawning space.

Into the chilly morning air, I stepped—and stepped over again, onto brown earth, where stalks still stand knee-high. Not a car passes down the little lane that divides this field from the next, and it would appear I am alone on this stage under a bright blue autumn sky.

From here, hunters will stand and fire shots above, as the geese drawn to spilled corn take flight and swing in a wide arc above our pond.
From the land I cannot protect, to the land I can, and will.

Though most has been caught and carted away, a few scattered cobs have escaped the harvest—plumpness in buff jackets, lying freely in the open air. And so, I stole one and then another, until my jacket, tethered at the waist, became full to my chin.
And I returned home, satisfyingly round.

Outside my window, a chipmunk is rounding himself, as well, with fallen seeds from a small tube feeder in the Hawthorn.
Each, in our own way, rearranging our world.
Filling pockets with riches.
Scurrying home.

Corncob left behind

Frosty Field

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The Trees

Oak in field

We pass the farm fields, spreading in all directions, filling the space between various small villages, as we travel longer distances, out from our own small town.
This season’s harvest now past, hidden homes appear where acres of tall, dense corn touched the blue of the horizon.


My favorite marker of these places we pass, the trees, standing apart from it all.


Rooted here for years, as these fields, each time,
have turned from green...
to gold...
to brown.
Perhaps spared the axe or saw in order to shade the workers here, man or beast. Or grown from a seed, fallen in the pile of rocks cleared from the earth before planting.

In any case, they reign--
magnificent markers in a resting landscape.

Two Trees

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Where is "there?" (SWF)

My friend at work just returned from a week’s vacation. Her favorite part of each day away, the evening--when she would go to a point on land, and from “there,” watch the sun set over the ocean.

Evening Sky above farm fields

And even though, living in the country as I do, where buildings are seldom taller than several stories, they collect, one after another, in small dense clusters. Barns and coops and silos--ringing each country home.

Here, I have a place that I go to, too.
Where the land touches the sky, and the trees part beyond an openness, stretching broad and deep.
Standing at the edge looking out, I could be anywhere.
But for that moment, I, too, am “there.”

Where is your “there” place?

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Sweet Dreams

An old house in the country.
And land all around.
A sanctuary for all who dwell here.

Those were our dreams for the 1835 farm.
And, though the original land had been cleared decades earlier when it stood proudly as a 100-acre tract, the pastures on these remaining fifteen had long grown wild. Creek beds, once again, filled with sycamores and hickories. While the old oak marking the far property line spawned a stand of new, young trees beyond the pond.

The elderly owners had wished for it wildness, and touched very little in their fifteen-year stay.
Untouched land reclaims even stone houses.
And the damage from neglect shown as rot and decay.
Shoring up the old house consumed much of our first years’ efforts.

Looking to the land, we began by removing fences. Creating a connected space, through which wildlife could easily move. From the pond to the oak woods, from the woods to the field—many tracks ran about on the soon well-worn paths. Regrowth had begun to restore the once-farmed land.

Julie and Chet Baker

Last week, another dream.
Julie Zickefoose, who literally wrote the book on creating safe places to both attract and sustain birds and butterflies, "The Bird-Friendly Backyard : Natural Gardening for Birds," walked the property with us. Her years of experience on her own land, just four hours east, and wealth of knowledge far beyond birds alone, were a privilege to tap into, even though, on this afternoon, the skies revealed very few, if any, birds to watch.


Bullfrogs? Who knew the hundreds lurking in the shallow water edging the pond might be a problem for songbirds? Doesn’t everyone have this many?
And suggestions for creating a nest site for turtles—the many curled white shells, evidence of a predator’s attention.



That evening after dinner, we relaxed around the table by the fire—catching up with Kathi and Susan, fellow bloggers and travelers along the dark country roads leading to the old farm.
Charming a small Black Rat snake found earlier, sunning on the lawn.
Enjoying the company of Chet Baker, Julie’s Boston Terrier, loved by all who meet him and a celebrity in his own right.

Chet Baker

I spent the following afternoon with Baker, while Julie led walks and programs at a nearby middle school. On one of the last gloriously fine days of autumn we fell asleep, stretched out in the back field, warmed by sunshine.

Missing Mether

Time to walk.
And time to talk.
I marvel at this generous woman who makes herself so accessible to so many. And whose passion for the natural world spreads wildly--lingering in those she touches long after she has gone.

Sweet Dreams, Chet Baker

Snapshot of America

I arrived in darkness, to the white brick church. Already, the gathering snaking down the uneven sidewalk, quietly murmuring from beneath its huddled silhouette, before reaching the gravel lot.
In the morning chill, curls of steam hang like question marks above warm coffee.
While the doors wait to be opened from within.

Of the many assembled here, I know just a few--
faces that have grown old since the years of ball games, Sunday school and holiday concerts.
The banker, crisply creased and spit-polished, his new car flanked by assorted pick-ups and a large rig left idling as we stand in the dark, checks his watch repeatedly. In black sneakers peeking from beneath a checkered skirt, a woman with long white hair, drawn back and up, stands in the comfort of her husband’s large frame. His gnarled hands, wrapped around the grip of a cane.
Beside them, young women with name badges on brightly-colored smocks.

We have all come here to cast our vote, this community of all shapes and sizes.
As the sun tentatively rises on this new day, the doors open.
This is the moment that captures America.