A paddle for a pole...anyone? (SWF)

Double-crested Cormorants
Phalacrocorax auritus

In many ways, a similar day at Dillon, from April’s unwoken landscape, to this day in June—the sky, clouded and white, as we floated out beyond the noise of the beach onto gunmetal water, Red Canoe’s first voyage of the season.
Barely clearing the broad sandy bottom, we made our way to the narrow deeper channel, access to the river upstream, while, with each firm stroke forward against the shallow middle water, great fish swirled beneath us. At times, it would have been easier to stand and step out, drag Red Canoe and its duffels of snacks and drinks past the chocolate brown, ankle deep swirls. But what couldn’t be seen, and what darted ahead with each surge, carving giant arcs with large dorsal fins as bow fishermen silently launched arrows in pursuit, kept us firmly seated, feet dry, poling until we could paddle again.

Great Blue Heron
Ardea herodias

Once finding the channel, the water cleared, allowing boats to pass easily, and us to escape beyond them, further upstream.
Cottonwoods, casting small fluffy seeds to float like snow upon the surface, stood back from the water’s edge.
Willows drank at the shore.
And, every so often, a tent peeked out from tall grass—its access road, quiet, paralleling the lake edge. A pickup parked on uneven ground.


On this first stretch of summer warmth, the water is welcome—drawing all sorts to its teeming basin.
But it seems we are in the minority, without bait, bobber or bow.






Even the birds are fishing.

Common Terns on log, adult with juvenile,
Sterna hirundo

Dillon Reservoir

We watched Common Terns and a Caspian Tern fish in the shallows of the lake at Dillon State Park. Scanning several feet above the surface, they would suddenly turn and drop, plunging vertically into the water to grab fish, then again rise to fly on.

See more Skywatch here.

Slice of Life

The air is sweet with honeysuckle, thick with frogsong—and a heaviness that wishes for rain.
Ahead of my steps along the path, small Woodfrogs and even tinier Spring Peepers, several weeks ago nothing more than specks of black within the clouded gelatinous masses floating in Little Pond Pool, scurry to bury themselves in a tangle of uncut grass—their safety, a hasty retreat.
While, poised and patient, the treefrog, noisy into the night with song, waits for me to pass. Long, knobby toes curled carefully, stepping and sticking tight, his safety--hiding in plain sight.

Cope's Gray Treefrog, Hyla chrysoscelis
(Green color phase to match his surroundings)

click photos to enlarge

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Up and under

The Loft

Up a narrow stair, flat and steeply pitched against a loft above goat stalls below, the dusty floor opens broadly. The empty space, scattered now with just the few remaining bits of clean straw left from winter’s stacked bales, glowing warmly--the barn board walls, ages old and built around heavy beams of hand hewn oak, lit softly by the first morning rays.




Through one of the pair of small, east-facing windows looking out over the pasture, I have watched a Phoebe perch on the sill above, then, seconds later, disappear into the dimly lit interior. This expansive old barn, no longer housing the dairy cows it was raised to shelter a hundred years ago, but a collection of tractors, plows, mowing decks, garden tools, items to be recycled—and, apparently, one phoebe nest.


I wait and watch quietly, eyes struggling between the bright spikes of light and the shadow just beyond their reach, and see her fly from her silhouetted form, across the loft to the highest point within the gambrel roof. Beside the round vent, 30 feet above the barn floor, she has built her nest—held steady on the old track where pulleys ran back and forth, lifting to the lofts, heavy hay.


Safe, it would seem from most anything.
Up and under.

The Old Barn

Phoebe in the East Window

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Apology

I meant to do my work today—
instead, ran following his bouncing flight,
one to another,
until, at the last, he left me,
watching,
as she tipped, ever carefully,
forward, forward, forward--
under the afternoon sun.

The work left waiting--
a petty pursuit,
measured against the truths revealed.

12-Spotted Skimmer, Libellula puchella, male

Eastern Pondhawk, Erythemis simplicicollis, male

Eastern Pondhawk, Erythemis simplicicollis, female

Ruby Meadowhawk, Sympetrum rubicundulum, male

Common Whitetail, Libellula lydia, male

Widow Skimmer, Libellula luctuosa, female

If there be gold dust and dragon’s wings,

what, then, of a dream?

(all photos enlarge)

Under Cover

A little too close, and the thick, cool mud quickly creeps past the lip of my sandal, painting my big toe boldly brown, revealing the truth I had hoped to keep secret—
I’ve been straying just a bit from the trail.
But from beneath this brush, the view is quite different. Where, stepping carefully past the tangle of vines and squatting low on the bank, I can look out across the surface of this little pond—quietly watch with the others…and disappear.

American Bullfrog, male (large tympanic membrane)
Rana catesbeiana

Beside me at the edge, sits a very large Bullfrog, chin deep in cool water, not moving a muscle. And as footsteps approach from the trail behind us, I hope he has not chosen this moment to launch himself noisily into the basin, announcing to all our perfect location--this cozy corner from which we wait, hidden.

Damselflies on American Lotus leaf

Dragonfly wings clatter loudly overhead. This water has unleashed them by the hundreds into the sunshine—skimmers and dashers, clubtails and darners--hungry and seeking mates in the open space carved from the woods by this small pond.



The tall sedges stretching up through the constant green of the water in front of me are covered in damselflies, linked in tandem, male and female pairs, almost silhouetted against the reflective surface, broken only by the circles of waxy blue, floating shoulder to shoulder.

And, as others pass, giving warnings of the poison ivy to one who might consider stepping close, I’m glad that, having carried a camera here, I have reason to inch yet a bit further.

This front row seat is worth muddy feet.

Damselfly pair on sedges (above)
and in mating wheel (below)

Northern Green Frog,
Rana clamitans melanota

The Waiting Field (SWF)

Corn Field

More rain just minutes away, still, the waiting field close enough for another day’s quick visit—open space and evening solitude, a welcome walk down the lane.
The weeds here, not yet tamed.

yellow rocket

butterweed
cressleaf groundsel

And, as it is each spring, for me to wonder as to what will replace this wildness, I hope for its turning, yet again—
for crops of corn or soy.

But, as each neighboring field is planted, and this one still stands under golden tops, acres across, I worry it may have seen its last season—sold for a greater price to one who will title it for what it once was, “Deerfield Crossing” or “Fox Run.”
I will always find the name, corn field, most satisfying.

Common Sooty Wings
at the road's edge

For more information on cressleaf groundsel, look here.

See more Skywatch here.

Under the Wire

Tree Swallow, male
Tachycineta bicolor

Our vegetable garden sits a distance from the house—adjacent to the old barn and bordered by the pasture, now grown high in field grasses. Two nest boxes mark the path, across the hill and into the woods.

Each year the strategy is the same.
Plant only what we’re able to defend. For as much as we look forward to the freshness a home garden can provide, so, too, do the others—raccoons, rabbits, deer,…eager to quickly empty it of its tender contents, courteously provided as a buffet within the sanctuary of our yard--
the snarling gardener discovering little more than its stubby remains on a steamy summer morning.


Two fine wires connected to a pulsing electric charge wrap the fertile, roto-tilled earth, dark with years’ turnings of manure, leaves and ash, several inches above its surface. And, though barely seen, its rhythmic pulse warns of its gentle reminder, “All else here is yours, save the tilled ground.”




From a few feet away, a male Tree Swallow stands—the sentinel above his family’s home, their nest in a box set out for Bluebirds—though, each year left to swallows, instead. Our closeness and regular visits never a bother, it would seem. Our ways, tolerated well, perhaps enjoyed—long looks would make it seem so.

One
of eight baby woodchucks

Surveyors of this expanse beyond our watch.
Wiser than we who stretch this fine wire, and wonder who passes unseen—
those yet small enough to pass—
under the wire.

I see you.

Ready for breakfast.

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