Winter blooms

Another snow.



Beneath the covered branches, single flakes caught in the finest strands of a summer spider’s thread, hang—
the lightest load on the strongest line, weightless in winter air.

Fluffy piles like feathers, grow
tall in the still morning.


Although I long for a warm breeze through this field of wildflowers,
today the winterflowers bloom.

Breezes blowing

Yesterday, between snow squalls from slate gray skies and bits of sunshine from blue, I roamed our trails slowly.
This is the season of change, almost daily—
leaves burst forth from buds, and birds’ feathers brighten.
Like the clouds, changing moment by moment.

A pair of Mallards has been spending time on our pond.
Each time I approach, they fly off. Maybe it’s best—the tracks I’ve seen back here suggest a hungry neighbor patrols often.

A handful of small, white feathers floats in the center across the surface of the muddy water —the breeze pushing each little vessel to the edge where it is caught, moored on grasses in the shallows.


They appear to be breast feathers—each delicately curved, splashed with a brown tip.
It seems unusual that so many have fallen here. Were they preened, or did something happen in the sky above, dropping them onto the pond?



By the time I return past, they’re barely visible—faint spots scattered and hidden in the weeds.

Spring breezes move life quickly past.

Presidents and salamanders

I think about politics as little as I can.
And politicians, even less.

Their world seems to stand in such contrast to mine.
Their language scripted to represent what they want us to hear. They stand shrouded in words they hope we recognize to be what we seek, their bodies dressed to impress.
Seeking strategic friendships.
Each act contributing a piece to the image being built for their purpose.
It all seems so unnatural.

I’ve spent much of this day studying salamanders. A commitment to monitor my vernal pool has given me the realization that I know very little about this microcosmic place.
The books stand high on the kitchen table—pictures and pamphlets I’ve collected to educate myself about the creatures that live and breed in these waters.
So much to do, so little time to get ready.


The Jefferson salamander, I’ve learned, is a mole salamander similar to the spotted salamander, first discovered in the 1800's in Pennsylvania on the grounds of Jefferson College.
It is indirectly named after President Thomas Jefferson, an avid naturalist.

This most sensitive of all amphibians and reptiles to the impact of development, requires intact habitat of about 1000 acres in order to survive long-term.
A tender small being, I will most likely never see.
His world altered.

But it made me wonder what the world could be like if it were led by naturalists.

Ice to water

Sandwiched between last week’s days of snow and the coming week’s promise of clouds sat a perfectly blue-skied day.
We drove an hour north, up the highway, while hawks sat on every occasional tree, wire and fencepost—sentinels watching this resting farmland and Big Darby Creek.



The dark, cold water runs swiftly, several inches below the ice--now capping only the rocks and rims of the creek.


In the finest lace--an image of the western sun

whose rays reveal the sandy shore.



The melting droplets hesitate--

unsure if they belong as ice
or water.

Click previous image to enlarge.
Ice sculptures formed beneath.

“The Darby Creek watershed is the healthiest and most diverse aquatic system of its size in the midwest. It is among the top five warm freshwater habitats in the nation. The Darby Creeks wind through a landscape that includes remnant prairies and savannas once part of a tallgrass prairie ecosystem. The quiet waters of Big and Little Darby harbor 103 species of fish and 38 species of mollusks.”

Excerpted from The Nature Conservancy

My count!

The feeders are well-stocked with the latest from the bird pantry. Tally sheets in hand, binocs firmly planted next to coffee cup on table--we begin.
It's Day 2 of the 4-day GBBC.
And although I won't be sitting and counting for this entire time, I'll be sure to practice my counting skills whenever able.
And not just on the birds.


Mary at Mary's View has given me the "You Make My Day" award--how did she know this pat on the back would be so perfectly timed?
I've been finding my blogging a challenge these days, especially with some newly acquired technology and different sites I'm adapting to--for me it's become more cumbersome, unlearning my previous, easy ways, while learning the new.
And until the learning catches up, I silently say, "Phew!" and breathe a sigh of relief to see it posted as I'd like.
The thought comes full circle, though, when responses come back--and I find I've made someone's day!

These bloggers make mine:
1. Jennifer at A Passion for Nature always has the loveliest photos--she's a pro--they're lovingly composed.
2. Diane at Alberta Postcards shows the western side of Canada--wild, beautiful--a great escape for me.
3. Caroline at Crayons is an artist. Her view in crayon drawings is amazingly insightful.
4. Lisa at Greenbow seems like a neighbor (in Indiana)--and it's nice to compare across the state.
5. T.R. at From the Faraway, Nearby always has great encouraging comments and captures some thoughtful places in his travel. A wise soul.
6. Mojoman at Moosehill Journal is a thinker. I carry his thoughts long after reading his posts.
7. Christine at Possumlady Place has a heart for all animals--in her sweet observations there is love.
8. Sandpiper sees the world in beautiful pictures. Always a treat for my soul.
9. Marvin at Three Steps Forward enjoys his land and shares his love of it and all things in it with much detail.
10. Kate at Kate Smudges always has pretty flowers and a happy spirit. I feel good there.

If you're "game," pass this on to 10 who, through blogging, make your day.
Whether it's by their inspiration or encouragement, it's a way to say, "Thanks for what you do!"

Icy morn..the last

I recall pushing my girls out the back door on days like this.
Days that you know are short-lived.
Days that, even though we may long for a change from them, will be wished for at a later date.
The days you wish to remember--blue skies, perfect snowflakes and crisp air.

The sun is peeking in the open windows of the old barn.
The goats are warm inside, eating their breakfast of sweet grain and hay--the pasture low and beneath snow.


I walked around the fencing, following the tracks left in the light snow cover. The night must have been alive with rabbits, dancing in the moonlight.
Their tracks are everywhere--bounding across the open spaces, stepping into the woods.

They respect the fences.

These tracks do not--stepping right through, walking across, and out the other side.
Perhaps a fox? Dog-like, but not a bother to the goats--nothing young or weak.
A coyote would have been different--but the field fence is too small for him to pass through.



I knelt down in the barely-there snow.
And saved images of snowflakes for August's swelter.

Leaving nothing but footprints

An overnight dusting of snow upon yesterday’s icy base—the perfect palette for prints.
I walked the short path, in the few spare minutes before work—imagining the unseen activities that had been recorded here.

In the distance, his mournful cry, the first I've heard since last summer's evenings.
Alone in the field, a penetrating chill.


The Red-shouldered hawk surveying the field from the large ash must find it easy to spot her prey—their tunnels in the grass, dark holes against the white snow.


The field is dotted with them—the scurrying feet never seen.


An impression left.
Dinner taken.