This morning dawned beautifully...
A thin layer of ice covers the lake this morning, fractal spirals and triangular crystals covering the delicate surface. The early morning light, almost horizontal, highlights the patterns. It casts long shadows and pale pastel reflections of the aspen trees across the flat expanse. Upside down, blurry and elongated, it's an impressionist version of reality painted upon a canvas of ice. The colors almost glow -- a mirror image of the salmon of the rising sun and the blue of the clear sky, the white of the tree-trunks and the beige of the prairie.
With their swimming-grounds hardened, the lake's surface is free of ducks and geese, but there are smaller birds all around. A flock of sparrows congregate in the button bush, taking refuge among its protective net of branches and twigs. They chatter to each other, creating an almost-constant background of warbles and cheeps as I approach. A few chickadees fly past, and some larger passerine birds, unidentifiable in the distance, perch in the highest branches of the aspens across the water. There is plenty of life even in the still of the season of dormancy, death and sleep.
Frost crystals color the grass and the dried prairie plants white... although half-way through December, we've yet to see any actual snow. The early morning air is crisp in my lungs... It almost burns with cold as I inhale deeply, but already I can feel the warmth of the sun's rays on my face and the promise of another unseasonably warm day. We've already made a snow-drought record this year... I wonder when (if?) we'll get a snowcover...
Friday, December 14, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Oh, What a Night!
I know, I never write any more. It shouldn't be a chore, I figure, and when it seems as such, I may as well just not. But tonight I am inspired... I probably have no readers left, but I'll write for myself nonetheless.
I went for what I call a chasing-the-light run this afternoon. During the shortest days of the year, if I want to run at all, I have to go right from work, as soon as I can get out so that I can get back before dark. These runs usually end up being brief and speedy... I'm chasing both the light AND the warmth.
Today, I ran out into the Oak Openings preserve across the street. It was, to say the least, crisp -- the air temperature only in the 20's and the ponds covered with a delicate layer of ice. To my left, the trail runs parallel to a stream corridor lined with spreading bur oak trees. To my right was prairie, some patches recently burned, the rest in the shades of brown and gray that characterize the late fall landscape. Ahead of me, I looked across the stubble of a dormant corn field, with the Ranney's rambling white farm house on the far end and a copse of trees behind that.
As the sun set behind me (run, Naomi, chase the light!) a full moon rose in front of me, completing the picturesque scene of Mid-west farm in November. It shyly slipped behind hazy clouds, obstructing its face, and then peeked out, large and butter-yellow on the horizon.
I saw movement in the field ahead of me, and focused my gaze on a herd of deer the exact color of the dead grasses. One flicked its white tail in warning, but they didn't run away. They stood and stared at me as I ran by, not 30 feet away.
I got back as the sky turned that shade that Crayola calls midnight blue, just in the nick of time. It was one of those moments... right place, right time, lucky to be there... (I should remember that when I don't want to run in the cold.)
I went for what I call a chasing-the-light run this afternoon. During the shortest days of the year, if I want to run at all, I have to go right from work, as soon as I can get out so that I can get back before dark. These runs usually end up being brief and speedy... I'm chasing both the light AND the warmth.
Today, I ran out into the Oak Openings preserve across the street. It was, to say the least, crisp -- the air temperature only in the 20's and the ponds covered with a delicate layer of ice. To my left, the trail runs parallel to a stream corridor lined with spreading bur oak trees. To my right was prairie, some patches recently burned, the rest in the shades of brown and gray that characterize the late fall landscape. Ahead of me, I looked across the stubble of a dormant corn field, with the Ranney's rambling white farm house on the far end and a copse of trees behind that.
As the sun set behind me (run, Naomi, chase the light!) a full moon rose in front of me, completing the picturesque scene of Mid-west farm in November. It shyly slipped behind hazy clouds, obstructing its face, and then peeked out, large and butter-yellow on the horizon.
I saw movement in the field ahead of me, and focused my gaze on a herd of deer the exact color of the dead grasses. One flicked its white tail in warning, but they didn't run away. They stood and stared at me as I ran by, not 30 feet away.
I got back as the sky turned that shade that Crayola calls midnight blue, just in the nick of time. It was one of those moments... right place, right time, lucky to be there... (I should remember that when I don't want to run in the cold.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Already Nipping?
This morning, we had our first patchy frost. It covered the rooftops, but I only saw it in a few places on the grass. It seems that the garden plants, at least in my garden, were spared... there will be basil and tomatoes for another day!
The frost followed a pretty crazy day of temperature fluctuations. Monday it got up to 80 degrees, and then a storm came briefly through and the temperatures dropped like a lead balloon. Tuesday's predicted high was around 65, but I don't think it even approached that. I was cold all day with a sweater on, for the first time since... at least May. Then last night, the low was a record-breaking 35 degrees F... followed by a lovely, mild (but windy), 70 degree daytime.
Winter coats and gloves at breakfast, shirt sleeves at lunch! How do we prepare for that?
The frost followed a pretty crazy day of temperature fluctuations. Monday it got up to 80 degrees, and then a storm came briefly through and the temperatures dropped like a lead balloon. Tuesday's predicted high was around 65, but I don't think it even approached that. I was cold all day with a sweater on, for the first time since... at least May. Then last night, the low was a record-breaking 35 degrees F... followed by a lovely, mild (but windy), 70 degree daytime.
Winter coats and gloves at breakfast, shirt sleeves at lunch! How do we prepare for that?
Thursday, August 16, 2012
A Topsy-Turvy World
I wonder... is this the same place that experienced the hottest driest June-into-July since the dust bowl era? Certainly August hasn't been this way. In fact, the past few days have been unseasonably cool and we've had quite a bit of rain, too. Last Thursday, I think it was, we got 3.5 inches in 24 hours. This morning's storm ripped through quickly and violently. It started with wind gusts -- tree branches thrashed wildly around, whipping through the air. My sunflowers, which are significantly taller than I am at this point, swayed perilously low. I implored them not to fall over, to be flexible and bend in the wind so that they wouldn't break. (They promised me, in a voice suspiciously similar to my husband's, that they'd stay standing -- but I'll have to wait until I get home from work to find out if they kept that promise.) Though the sky was dark, at this point it was barely raining at all... but before too long, it was pouring buckets, as they say... raining cats and dogs... rain was coming down in sheets... am I missing any rain cliches? The drops were huge, and plentiful, water ran down the driveway and through through the street... And before long it was over, a calm cloudy day...
Monday, August 6, 2012
My Magical Morning
Saturday evening, rain came through at the head of a cool front. It brought near-perfect weather for Sunday and today, with my sunrise run taking place in actual coolth. Those conditions created a magical morning.
I entered the Savanna through a mowed trail that comes off of a residential area, so I came not into an area crowded with signs and wide trails, but rather right into the quiet savanna itself. It was a heavenly pastorale, with the reaching crowns of oak trees growing not from meadows, but directly from clouds. Their swirls formed gently-rolling white hills. You could almost hear the Beethoven playing. And it was pretty neat to run through thick clouds.
Looking closer at the prairie through which I passed, every leaf tip and flower petal, every seed head and stem was heavy with pregnant dew drops, the pre-evaporated fog. When the sun's horizontal rays shone through them, they sparkled with such intensity I almost had to proceed with my eyes closed. When, mercifully, I passed through the long shadows of hedgerows and tree groves, I saw that dewdrops weren't the only adornment of the plants. Spiders had fastened webs to nearly every available specimen, a testament to how many invisible creatures share the space with us. Made visible by the water, there were large droopy orbs that bridged two plants together. There were tiny perfect circles -- in one single Queen Anne's Lace plant, I counted four individual webs, each the size of quarters, nestled into Vs in the plant's stem. There were low-down messy webs, the type that make you think of that you-tube video about spiders on drugs. (Funny, irreverent, recommended.) Everywhere I looked, silken strands connected pieces of the prairie.
I had to stop and take in the wetland area. It is a pool dotted with snags -- probably trees that weren't adapted to the wet conditions that came on suddenly when drain tiles were removed. This morning, they, too, arose out of mist. Skeleton tombstones in a graveyard of trees, like a scene from a horror movie. A heron perched on a branch, his neck curled and shoulders hunched... a grey, grumpy old man admonishing the passers-by with his glare. And to remind me that I wasn't about to hear the sound of chainsaws or banjos, a wood duck glided through the water, diminutive and graceful.
In some ways, I think it's a shame that I wasn't carrying my camera, haven't been into picture-taking much at all lately. But in other ways, I'm glad. I'd have taken a picture and been done with it. This way, I spent miles working out wording, trying to determine how I'd describe the indescribable. Although I've forgotten some of my well-worded phrases by the time I've finally gotten to the typing, I think it's still a good mental exercise, probably better than taking a picture. And if I've failed to capture the moment? Well, it was my moment, anyhow... I have the pictures in my head.
Now...
In other bird phenology news... I noticed several goldfinches today that are looking slightly less... gold. Some still seem bright, but others? Not so much. Is it really time for winter plumage already?
I entered the Savanna through a mowed trail that comes off of a residential area, so I came not into an area crowded with signs and wide trails, but rather right into the quiet savanna itself. It was a heavenly pastorale, with the reaching crowns of oak trees growing not from meadows, but directly from clouds. Their swirls formed gently-rolling white hills. You could almost hear the Beethoven playing. And it was pretty neat to run through thick clouds.
Looking closer at the prairie through which I passed, every leaf tip and flower petal, every seed head and stem was heavy with pregnant dew drops, the pre-evaporated fog. When the sun's horizontal rays shone through them, they sparkled with such intensity I almost had to proceed with my eyes closed. When, mercifully, I passed through the long shadows of hedgerows and tree groves, I saw that dewdrops weren't the only adornment of the plants. Spiders had fastened webs to nearly every available specimen, a testament to how many invisible creatures share the space with us. Made visible by the water, there were large droopy orbs that bridged two plants together. There were tiny perfect circles -- in one single Queen Anne's Lace plant, I counted four individual webs, each the size of quarters, nestled into Vs in the plant's stem. There were low-down messy webs, the type that make you think of that you-tube video about spiders on drugs. (Funny, irreverent, recommended.) Everywhere I looked, silken strands connected pieces of the prairie.
I had to stop and take in the wetland area. It is a pool dotted with snags -- probably trees that weren't adapted to the wet conditions that came on suddenly when drain tiles were removed. This morning, they, too, arose out of mist. Skeleton tombstones in a graveyard of trees, like a scene from a horror movie. A heron perched on a branch, his neck curled and shoulders hunched... a grey, grumpy old man admonishing the passers-by with his glare. And to remind me that I wasn't about to hear the sound of chainsaws or banjos, a wood duck glided through the water, diminutive and graceful.
In some ways, I think it's a shame that I wasn't carrying my camera, haven't been into picture-taking much at all lately. But in other ways, I'm glad. I'd have taken a picture and been done with it. This way, I spent miles working out wording, trying to determine how I'd describe the indescribable. Although I've forgotten some of my well-worded phrases by the time I've finally gotten to the typing, I think it's still a good mental exercise, probably better than taking a picture. And if I've failed to capture the moment? Well, it was my moment, anyhow... I have the pictures in my head.
Now...
In other bird phenology news... I noticed several goldfinches today that are looking slightly less... gold. Some still seem bright, but others? Not so much. Is it really time for winter plumage already?
Friday, July 27, 2012
No Excuses
OK. It's been over a quarter of a year since I've written, or drawn, or photographed. Actually, that's not true... Since early April, I've nature journaled and drawn -- though not much -- but I've done it. I have no excuse, really, I just didn't feel like blogging, and it shouldn't be a chore, and then it had been so long I just didn't know how to go back... I still don't feel like scanning sketches, or taking photos. But I've been thinking about jumping back into the blog and today... maybe I still have a reader or two.
This afternoon I ran through the rain. I used to say I'd never run in the rain, that I didn't like running that much. The change in attitude doesn't reflect a change in my attitude about running so much as a change in my attitude about rain. Rain! Just after Memorial Day, I spend a late May day hiking in the rain with forty 5-6th graders. When I say hiking in the rain, I don't mean a sprinkle here or there. I mean it poured from when we left at 9 am until we returned to our campsite at 4 pm. I mean we were strategizing how to build our ark out of materials available in the forest in case the water never stopped coming down. I mean that my fingers and toes turned to prunes and my raingear was breached before lunch and then I was just wet to the bone. I mean we worried that we wouldn't have food for dinner because we had to cook it over a fire, and fires tend not to like water. And I should mention that it was really fairly chilly, too... so I wished and wished that it would stop raining, and I could just be dry and warm.
Little did I know. That was the last rain I saw for over a month. In June, we got less than an inch, total, which came in just two afternoons with brief showers that hardly even soaked into the parched clay earth. Every day the seven day forecast was "sunny, hot."
I recognize I don't need to tell anyone this. The drought that's affecting more than half the country is all over the news, pictures of farmers inspecting crispy brown corn plants. We've all seen the established trees and shrubs turning an unprecedented brown.
So this has been a week to celebrate. I celebrate the showers that have fallen each morning, not for terribly long, but long enough, and they come day after day. I celebrate the lush green prairies, the morning dew, the wet grass, the prism of sunlight as I stare at the fat drops clinging to the blades of grass. I celebrate not having to water the vegetables day after day, and almost needing to actually mow the re-greening lawn. I celebrate the spectacular and diverse cloudscapes that have filled the wide sky each day, with fluffy cumulonimbus and whispy cirrus and everything in between, catching the sun's light. I celebrate for the dragonflies whose mosquito prey has emerged this week for the first time all summer, and for all the creatures whose thirst has been satisfied.
We call water the liquid of life... It is water that sustains earth, that makes this third planet from the sun the one -- the perfect one -- the one with the right conditions for the right things to happen for millions, billions of ears -- to allow us to be here. Water, frozen and liquid, has shaped our land. It fills our cells. I quenches our parched throats and our dried-up souls. The subject of poetry and picture. Of course we all appreciate water and we all take water and its availability for granted. But maybe a little less so now.
The prairies have weathered the drought better than lawns and gardens and farms. (Duh, native plants are adapted to live here and prairie plants especially are known for their long roots and small rough leaves, all adaptations to dry hot summers...) But they look especially lovely with the dust washed off... compass plants tower over the grasslands, their yellow crowns affirming their status as king of July. Brown-eyed Susans, their adoring cousins, crowd beneath them. Grasses are starting to flower, their tiny blooms not so eye-popping, but fascinating and colorful if you stop to look at them. Blazing stars are purple exclamation points, excitement in the green and yellow. Ironweed, indigo seed pods, milkweed seed pods, coneflowers yellow and purple... And that's just a small taste of the biodiversity that's out there.
Random note: harvested my first tomatoes today -- twelve of them!
Well, welcome back! I'll try not to stay gone so long again.
This afternoon I ran through the rain. I used to say I'd never run in the rain, that I didn't like running that much. The change in attitude doesn't reflect a change in my attitude about running so much as a change in my attitude about rain. Rain! Just after Memorial Day, I spend a late May day hiking in the rain with forty 5-6th graders. When I say hiking in the rain, I don't mean a sprinkle here or there. I mean it poured from when we left at 9 am until we returned to our campsite at 4 pm. I mean we were strategizing how to build our ark out of materials available in the forest in case the water never stopped coming down. I mean that my fingers and toes turned to prunes and my raingear was breached before lunch and then I was just wet to the bone. I mean we worried that we wouldn't have food for dinner because we had to cook it over a fire, and fires tend not to like water. And I should mention that it was really fairly chilly, too... so I wished and wished that it would stop raining, and I could just be dry and warm.
Little did I know. That was the last rain I saw for over a month. In June, we got less than an inch, total, which came in just two afternoons with brief showers that hardly even soaked into the parched clay earth. Every day the seven day forecast was "sunny, hot."
I recognize I don't need to tell anyone this. The drought that's affecting more than half the country is all over the news, pictures of farmers inspecting crispy brown corn plants. We've all seen the established trees and shrubs turning an unprecedented brown.
So this has been a week to celebrate. I celebrate the showers that have fallen each morning, not for terribly long, but long enough, and they come day after day. I celebrate the lush green prairies, the morning dew, the wet grass, the prism of sunlight as I stare at the fat drops clinging to the blades of grass. I celebrate not having to water the vegetables day after day, and almost needing to actually mow the re-greening lawn. I celebrate the spectacular and diverse cloudscapes that have filled the wide sky each day, with fluffy cumulonimbus and whispy cirrus and everything in between, catching the sun's light. I celebrate for the dragonflies whose mosquito prey has emerged this week for the first time all summer, and for all the creatures whose thirst has been satisfied.
We call water the liquid of life... It is water that sustains earth, that makes this third planet from the sun the one -- the perfect one -- the one with the right conditions for the right things to happen for millions, billions of ears -- to allow us to be here. Water, frozen and liquid, has shaped our land. It fills our cells. I quenches our parched throats and our dried-up souls. The subject of poetry and picture. Of course we all appreciate water and we all take water and its availability for granted. But maybe a little less so now.
The prairies have weathered the drought better than lawns and gardens and farms. (Duh, native plants are adapted to live here and prairie plants especially are known for their long roots and small rough leaves, all adaptations to dry hot summers...) But they look especially lovely with the dust washed off... compass plants tower over the grasslands, their yellow crowns affirming their status as king of July. Brown-eyed Susans, their adoring cousins, crowd beneath them. Grasses are starting to flower, their tiny blooms not so eye-popping, but fascinating and colorful if you stop to look at them. Blazing stars are purple exclamation points, excitement in the green and yellow. Ironweed, indigo seed pods, milkweed seed pods, coneflowers yellow and purple... And that's just a small taste of the biodiversity that's out there.
Random note: harvested my first tomatoes today -- twelve of them!
Well, welcome back! I'll try not to stay gone so long again.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Going Backwards...
We had a freeze and a hard frost last night for the first time since... I don't know, February? The last time it happened, it was early enough that I didn't even take note of it because we all assumed we'd see more of it. And then we had a frost-free March. Anyhow, this one may have damaged some stuff, because things came up early and were really far along and then it went down to the low 20s... we'll see! Supposed to do the same tonight, I think.
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