Small world

I was in the very midst of them and hadn’t even noticed.
The finest spun creations, that from my standing position, seemed to be no more than sparkling masses in the grass--catching the morning sun.


On my hands and knees, it is quite different. For when I enter their world, what was without form from a distance, immediately reveals its beauty. Each no more than a couple inches across and designed by an artist the size of my freckle, I settle in and watch.
A visitor to the colony of the tiniest orb-weavers imaginable.

Last night’s dew hangs on each cord. Strings of pearls, draped perfectly from stem to stem with such weight, they look as if they should break.
And at the center, the artist himself—a small, red spider.






Only one is working this morning—scampering with such speed, round and round. And in the few minutes I watch her, lays down 4 rings of fine thread, each precisely placed from the last. I hope she is just an early riser inspired by the morning sun and is not frantically replacing a web my foot unknowingly destroyed.



What does she hope to catch in this tiny round web, aside from the sun and drops of dew?
There are many other residents of her very small world.

small grasshopper

small praying mantis drinking dew drop

small American Toad


Click on images to enlarge.

Vows

I can recall flowers from many occasions--
sometimes more than the words that were said as they were given.
To bring comfort or healing, as expressions of joy or celebration, they add life to our lives.
And remind us of its beauty.


The tender petals that soften the stone interior of a large church,


stand atop stems that occupy a young woman’s hands--
until hers are joined with her husband’s


and share, with them, their first day as man and wife.


Witnesses to their vows.

My younger daughter was married Saturday.
I still remember the flowers from the day she was born.
Passing 23 years in a day.





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What is the nature of art?

"All art is an imitation of nature." -
-- Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Bark chip along trail.

Above: Pine tree with matching carving.

Pine borer?

So small, yet so mighty

The fierce weather that held onto so much of the country has passed.
The final wave of dramatic skies, the last before we're in the clear.

Raining just a few scattered drops, before they hurriedly roll on.




In the midst of it all, the tiniest pollinators toil.


Scarcely the size of a raindrop himself, this little fly dances from flower to flower.
Dodging the assault.



While I, with my umbrella as my shield, watch.
Wincing at the wetness.

Thanks to Wigger's World for hosting Skywatch Friday each week at his site!

Where have you been all my life?

Perhaps it’s the warmer days.
Perhaps it’s the softer earth.
Whatever the appeal, the turtles sense it.

In the course of the last week, I’ve crossed paths with four—all different species, yet all on the move for the same reason.
It’s egg-laying time.

I’ve come across box turtles, painted turtles and snapping turtles on our property many times in the 15 years we’ve lived here. Its pond and wooded areas, the habitat they enjoy. Each time, an opportunity to stop and watch the event—I mark the location for future reference.
All too often, to find that raccoons have found buried treasure there, soon afterward.

And, although Ohio is known to be home for 12 species, I’ve never found any the remaining 9, here, on this 15-acre property.


Until last Friday.
When I found this very large Red-eared slider in the grass.
She was huge.
And very slow-moving.


Her shell, not much to look at from above, but intricately decorated on its interior edges.


And at about the 12-inch maximum of their size.



Could she be older than I?
This turtle that lives 50-70 years?
And I’ve never seen before?

Perhaps that’s how she does it.

In reading about Red eared sliders, I found that they were extensively used in the pet market. Now, there are turtle rescue organizations that give these gentle, thoughtful creatures homes. Part of the application process for rescuing a Red Eared Slider includes a "Turtle Will"--provision for its care after your death, as they are likely to outlive their human caretaker.

Ugh!

The long, cool spring that caused so many to wish warmer weather upon us, has vanished--hot, humid days fill the week's forecast. And, though June is often warm, the sudden contrast that we're experiencing makes these 90+ degree days difficult, to put it mildly.

I reflect on the tender days of spring, and know that, with a good rain these skies will pass.

Until then...puttering around indoors.
And tending to chores that are easily set aside on those better outdoor days!
With dew drops to lighten my steps.

Columbine and dew




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The sounds around us

I miss the sounds of the outdoors.
Ninety-degree days and still, sticky evenings have forced us to close up the windows and turn on the air--not so much for the cooling, but the relief from humidity.
Beyond the glass, the sky hums with cicada song.

I’ve set up a nursery for the orphaned kittens in our bathroom. It’s a small space, easy to clean, and relatively quiet.
Their window I’ve left open—one remaining tie to their previous lives in the barn. They sleep beneath it, a pile of heads and tails with the nighttime sounds—familiarity in their changed world.
Already, they’ve become less frightened of me. They crawl and climb over my legs, tumbling and wrestling, chasing each other’s tails. And, even at this young age, their ravenous appetites empty plate after plate of food. I wash their faces and stroke their full bellies, clean their ears and behinds--like mama would.
But, try as I might, their mother I am not.

I watched her, Wednesday, return to the barn, and call them from beneath the lumber pile. Their immediate response to her barely perceptible voice, the perfect display of joy.
Dancing up to her, nuzzling close—she was their only need.

Twice since she’s been gone, I’ve seen it again—when a kitten accidentally begins to purr.
A barely perceptible sound that draws the others close.
And leaves them standing, looking lost, unable to find her.

It must be what they remember of her closeness.
A sound that meant she was near.
But, now, just seems confusing.