Tag Archives: nature

SYMPHONY

I walk around the house in the summer twilight
opening windows
letting in the insect orchestra
katydids run scales in the tree tops
crickets, the violins of summer
carry the tune from tree and field and bush
an owl makes its first exploratory sounding
of the evening, three solitary hoots—no reply
the night rhythm begins

Warm August air pushes through the hammock
mosquitoes whine by my ankles
and through a hole in the canopy
I watch bats shadow puppet
against a column of darkening sky
I strain to catch the thread of each vibration
each pattern, rhythm, pitch
a unique life cycle
a specific niche filled
a gorgeous tapestry of sound

It’s carnival this time of year
no sooner has one reveler bowed out
than the next chorus crowds in from the wings
the belligerent rise and fall of the dog day cicadas
makes way for the ululations of the grey tree frogs
at high noon the meadow shimmered
with the stridulation of grasshoppers
and now young coyotes yip and howl
as they prowl the long grasses

Sunlight creeps into the garden once more
illuminating tomatoes tear-dropped with dew
songbirds and crows take to the stage
and under the stone in the wall
the constant cricket sings.

TROLL UNDER THE BRIDGE

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Faintly he hears the bleat of Mr. Dollar’s goats from up the road.
No chance of a nice fat one trit-trotting across his bridge.
Troll must settle for devouring, with his unblinking eyes,
the beer swilling teenagers wielding spray cans,
the solitary Sunday morning fisherman,
the motionless heron gazing into the slow eddies for young trout.

In spring he feasts his eyes on the surge of brown flood water
muscling its way downstream,
and gorges on backyard debris—broken deckchairs, bicycle tires, chicken wire

In summer he drinks in the swallows swirling in the fly-riddled air
and the young ones peeping from their nests
tucked under the bridge’s metal struts

In fall he savors the acorns and maple helicopters
tossed into the current by kids hanging over the railings,
and the flocks of Canada geese settling into the marsh at twilight

And in winter the old troll digests the slow trickle under ice,
and the eagle perched in bare branches with one eye on the open water,
the other on the motionless figure watching from under the bridge.

HERE, NOW, ALWAYS

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The air is warm as blood,
buzzing with the vibrations of mating cicadas.
A swarm of red ants scurry
over the slats of the deck chair
that has not been moved since my father last sat in it;
this is now their territory.
Whilst he slumbered
under the green canopy of the walnut tree
they crept, antennae quivering, into his world.
Soon fertile eggs clustered
in a coral of larvae under the armrests.
Workers foraged relentlessly
from the lawn to the deck chair to feed their queen,
right under my father’s oblivious arse.

Did his brain search so diligently for words
to describe the scene in front of him?
Or did he simply accept if for a seamless whole
and himself embroidered into a corner of it—all of a piece?
I brought him a cup of coffee, thinking he’d linger,
beguiled by the natural world he once loved; but no.
Maybe the ants crept up his pant leg
or the swoop of a red-bellied woodpecker
jolted him out of his being
and sent him shuffling inside for a spoon of sugar.

SUMMER TIME

32 Replies

It’s been a busy but rewarding season. My parents came from Ireland to visit and experience glorious summer weather and the constant circus of wildlife that surrounds our house in New York’s Hudson Valley. I celebrated my 50th birthday in my wild but fruitful garden, surrounded by family and friends. My wonderful daughter and mother helped me cook up a feast with lots of tasty local produce. Every day I marveled at my daughter’s artistic skills–painting, writing, embroidering. I watched my youngest son find grace and joy with each new physical skill he mastered. My eldest son’s summer was one long celebration of friends and freedom after four diligent years of high school. Taking him to college we got to explore two new amazing cities and states, Seattle, Washington and Portland, Oregon. In between times, I interviewed fascinating and talented artisans for Dirt magazine. And I’ve been out and about with my notebook and camera, making the most of the long beautiful days. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the season as much as I have. –Your health! Melissa

Columbia River Gorge

Multinomah Falls, OR

Mt. Hood, Oregon

Sunrise through wildfire smoke over Mosier bluff, OR

Short Sands Beach, nr. Manzanita, OR

Manzanita sunset, OR

Mt. Rainier, WA

Mandarin Cloak, brooch by Mena Messina

Here’s a link to my latest article in Dirt Magazine

MICA

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The man who balanced stones
took them home to bed with him, you know.

He rolled them under the covers
and ran the soles of his feet,

callous by callous,
over the fissures and dimples.

He knew the landscape of limestone and slate,
the terrain of every one of those globes of granite,

each freckle and glint of mica,
his namesake; and god knows the hands,

the great gulfed hands of a wall builder.
By day he pawed those bed stones of fieldstone

eyes closed to a flicker of emotion
and a slow sweet smile as

he found each one’s sweet spot—
the point at which it rested in perfect balance.

TALKING WITH CROWS

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By Nyssa Shaw-Smith Gendelman

I love it when the crows talk to me:

They know the comings and goings along the road,
why the blue jays are shrieking
and the sparrows have grown quiet in the bush.

Crows tell of the hawk’s shadow skimming the treetops
the silent owl on the hunt,
the bat looping the lawn.

They know the house wren’s hysterics
mean the house cat is slinking
through the grass, they know

there’s a bear feasting in the black cherry,
a dead snake on the road
and the turkey vultures are circling.

Crows—all eyes and ears and voice,
And they know that I am good
for old crusts of bread and gossip.

THORN

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Amazing how the tiniest thorn
can distract you–
that pulse point of pain
on the index finger
a sharp reminder
each time you pick up the pen,
the spoon, the book
of the briefest encounter
with a wineberry bush,
your hand snaking
into the undergrowth
to pluck the plumb berry.
And now you’ve dug
into the pad of your finger
with an old pin,
exposing the culprit
and teasing it out of the flesh.
You marvel how
such a sliver could cause
such aggravation,
till it lies
ridiculously insignificant
on the palm of your hand.

COMMUNION

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The orb of light crests the ridge,
I stand facing her at the high point of the meadow,
my back to the full sinking moon,
and my heart leaps as always.

Planting the souls of my feet on damp earth
I stretch up, drawing in that healing energy,
letting go of the knotted muscles, the clenched jaw,
calming my agitated heart and restless head.

The amphitheater fills with birdsong,
setting the tone for my morning spiritual.
Feathery grasses burnished with dew
echo the colors of the sun’s rays.

I breathe cool air full of green and swaying life.
A flock of cedar waxwings flit across the blue dome,
A rufous-sided towhee shrills a benediction.
I listen and bask and absorb and hum with the earth.

My body sways, finding its center
acknowledge the power within
and fueling it with the sacred moment:
this is my choir, my cathedral, my communion.

I pick a small posy of wildflowers.
The scent of dried yarrow and lady’s bedstraw
will be the memory incense
to conjure up this temple moment.

THERE’S NO GOING BACK

20 Replies

Painting by Scott Woolsey

I’d like to share my latest article from Dirt magazine with you. I hope you enjoy it.
Hands: Artisan’s Studio

MONTAUK

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Montauk Lighthouse

On the summer solstice I was playing hooky on Montauk Point, Long Island, New York. Thanks to the remnants of tropical storm Bill, the morning of June 21st brought thunderstorms and overcast skies. But June 22nd was a very different story.