Waiting at the Window

I woke this morning to the sound of raindrops on the roof. And, for the first time in a very long while, eagerly awaited sunrise to greet them.
So little, so late--another drought for the Midwest.

Through the sparse brown grass on the lawn, the dry earth is easily seen. Open areas have become dust bowls, where birds gladly fluff their feathers, as if in water--the fine particles of our clay soil, a smooth and cleansing dry bath.

More bad news of the global economic decline leads the day's broadcasts.
And I feel somehow we have seen this before.
Families watching their lives blow away, arms around each other. Helpless to catch it.
Waiting at the window--
for change.

Waiting at the Window

by A.A. Milne


These are my two drops of rain
Waiting on the window-pane.

I am waiting here to see
Which the winning one will be.

Both of them have different names.
One is John and one is James.

All the best and all the worst
Comes from which of them is first.

James has just begun to ooze.
He's the one I want to lose.

John is waiting to begin.
He's the one I want to win.

James is going slowly on.
Something sort of sticks to John.

John is moving off at last.
James is going pretty fast.

John is rushing down the pane.
James is going slow again.

James has met a sort of smear.
John is getting very near.

Is he going fast enough?
(James has found a piece of fluff.)

John has quickly hurried by.
(James was talking to a fly.)

John is there, and John has won!
Look! I told you! Here's the sun!

The Stuff Legends are Made of

The perfect season for a mystery--when morning fog shrouds every form, and the woods and fields have grown quiet. Shorter days steal the last light from the deepest recesses of the forest.
For what we cannot see—
there is imagination.


I stepped off the leafy path last weekend, where the grass leads into the dark pine woods. Beyond the crunching of dry fallen leaves beneath my steps, it became suddenly quiet, the ground a densely woven blanket of randomly strewn green and brown needles.
Shadows stretch from the edge, inward, across them.
The lower branches forming an impenetrable fence, their long bare fingers laced together--catching my hair and clothes as I venture past them into this protected space.

It was here, last year, that I discovered our owl, as she sat on a low branch, watching, from a distant corner. We met, with only feet between us, and held each other, eye-to-eye, until she flew off in silence through the woods and beyond. Her tree stands empty now, the whitewash faded from summer rains.


So what of this skull?
Bleached bone laid neatly on the blanket of needles, nothing more to suggest how it came to rest here, in the pine woods.
And what of the cow that is without it?

It is the stuff legends are made of.

Within the Fields of Gold

The world is full of deception.
At every turn, something is not what it first appears to be.
And a closer look reveals the true being.

Autumn Evening

Even in our field, now quiet of birds and chirping insects, except for a lone cricket in the tall grass, a deceiver is among us.


Winding around the heavily flowered stems of goldenrod, peeking from the bright stalks as I walk past, Locust Borer beetles. Their inch-long slender black and yellow striped bodies more like those of yellow jackets than the harmless (to humans) beetles they are. Drawn to visit these flowers of fall as adults, the larva feed, tunneling within the branches of Black Locust, a common tree to fill disturbed areas of the Midwest.

Black Locust, Robinia pseudoacacia
spring blossoms

With red legs and long antennae, they have emerged as adults, buzzing from one golden top to the next.

Locust Borer, Megacyllene robiniae

Beside the honeybees and wasps.
As if they were one and the same.
Yet, deceivers.

View more ABC Wednesdays here!

Following Butterflies

We’re on that bumpy road to autumn.
Where chilly mornings give way to hot afternoons.
And a light jacket becomes your best friend—never too far from reach.

Cherry leaves

We received, after weeks without, a day of rain.
Just enough to brighten the fading colors of summer in the field and leave its dust-spattered signature on my newly cleaned windows.
It seems drier in these last several years, than I can ever remember.
The grass on the lawn, crunchy and brown.
Trees’ leaves, curled and already fallen.

Maple leaves

A sort of sad scene, as fall can sometimes be. Especially when the eagerly awaited colors are missing from the landscape.

I find myself lingering longer.
Not wanting to go inside until I have found something more uplifting.
And, by finding it, remind myself that it is always there.
To be found, if I am patient.

Can you guess what the colored leaves belong to?

Like bright spots peeking through bent grasses.

Tall Ironweed

Or a single orange butterfly that lights on the brown seed heads of Tall Ironweed, and then skips on—
to Asters!

New England Asters

And the mystery plant, when all around is brown, boasting leaves in shades of orange, crimson and burgundy--
poison ivy!

The Night Before Skywatch

‘T was the night before Skywatch, and all through the land,
every blogger, preparing a photograph grand;

Their cameras were perched in empyreal places,
in hopes that sheer beauty would soon fill those spaces.

So, morning chores finished and laundry begun,
I marched ‘cross our field on the heels of the sun;

Scanning high, peeking low, in the world I did roam,
and with every thing captured, found my way back home.

When out o’er the pond there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my feet to see what was the matter.

The grass was still wet with dew of the morn,
And I thought it a shame better boots I’d not worn.

To the edge I ran quickly, wildly looking around,
Past the tops of the trees, for the very loud sound;

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a huge floating boat, boldly labeled, “Goodyear.”

Goodyear blimp passing over our pond

Now on to the next spot, now dash away, bright,
"Happy Skywatch to all, and to all a good night."

Have you seen...

It is the season of change.
When all around us, leaves turn from the bold green of summer to the withered brown of winter—with all the brightness of color, scattered in between.
More favorite, even, than red—the golden tones that bring warmth, especially on a chilly day.


The soybean fields have turned, as well, almost overnight, into fields dotted with yellow.
A sponge-painted canvas, catching the afternoon light.



Leaves with burnished edges, hint of what this expanse will soon become.
From the plants bearing fuzzy green beans--
grows a broad, rolling golden sea, its little brown pods waiting for harvest.





"Have you seen...." is an effort to discover the unusual beauty in things not usually appreciated for their beauty.

First Light

Early morning, first light.

When sounds of the nighttime mix with those of the approaching day.
Birdsong from the woods, a Barred Owl’s questioning call in the distance—and persistent chattering and fussing from the yard below.
Our bedroom door, open, to the upstairs porch and the sounds of the waking fields and woods.
Our narrow road, close below, between them.


For quite some time it continued, as we lay warm beneath blankets, a disturbing, unsettling call that we decided must be a raccoon. One of many in this rural area.


Becoming pests in greater numbers to be sure, though I smile when I see the small hand-prints so like mine, left after a night’s diddling in the mud at the edge of the pond.



I fussed about inside, preparing for a day’s work.
The sound outside my door, now quiet.
Gone with the darkness.


Pulling slowly onto the narrow road, a few feet from our drive, a small someone lay still on the pavement.
How Mama must have fussed over her here, confused and scared.

While we slept beneath warm blankets.
Listening to the sounds of first light.

Unmarred by her accident,
this baby raccoon was beautiful.
Soft and small.

Click to enlarge

participating in Camera Critters