Early Riser

Leaving a trail upon silvery grass,
I walk collecting jewels,
remnants of the evening mist,
fallen to earth,
perfectly.


Crystalline drops,
each a tiny looking glass reflecting within,
without.
A point of clarity in fog.



Purely clean, they bathe my feet
before daylight steals them away
and hides my steps,
so others will not see—only I.

Mystery on Oak Ridge

This weekend, days before Halloween, I walked our woods--catching up on many areas I don't regularly see.
My eyes were focused on the ground, where fallen leaves now obscure every last bit of dirt. Hickories and oaks make up most of our woods, with a few maples thrown in for occasional color. Even in a colorless landscape, their different shapes and textures are beautiful.
One tree seemed to be the only of its kind--maybe a chestnut oak? Whatever it is, something seems to have made a meal of it.

Rounded holes, the size of a small pea, are in almost every leaf.
The green leaves above show them, too--as light filtered through this odd patterning.


I'd seen caterpillars feeding on different oaks earlier in the summer--but their ravenous eating devoured entire leaves, not small nibbles. And, what sort of creature takes a bite out of the middle, when the edge would seem to be an easier mark? It's like taking a bite out of the center of a pizza!
Hmmm.

Passing

Last week’s travel to Washington, took us into Maryland through West Virginia’s northern panhandle and mountaineer country. Making frequent stops as we journeyed past the small towns and mountain gaps brought us loveliness—reds, oranges, and gold against a brilliant blue October sky.

The hills are wearing their fall color.

I love the fall—maybe best of all seasons. The sun’s lower angle casts gentler light, more friendly rays--creating shadow upon a perfect canvas.
Autumn is the evening light to spring’s morning.
We race against a setting sun, each day noticeably changed from the last. The sense of fleeting time seems magnified, though each minute measures the same.






It is the time we take stock of our harvest. Did it yield what we hoped for—and, will it carry us through winter’s chill.
We reflect on what we have—and what we lack.
We remember.

Photographs taken of the village of Frostburg, MD,
Coopers Rock, WV,
and a cemetery in Cumberland, MD.

Fred

We share our property with a good number of rat snakes.
Exactly what is a good number? Enough that we no longer make finding one a reason for finding someone else to share it with.
We’ve grown accustomed to finding eggs in the compost pile, hatchlings covering the lawn around the belly of our old hollow sycamore, and an occasional adult crossing the yard.
They’re welcome neighbors in this rural area. Outbuildings and bags of grain mean a steady supply of mice. We’d be up to our ears in the little whiskered critters, were it not for the snakes’ help.


Last week, this hatchling suddenly appeared by the back door in the time it took me to walk down and back from the mailbox.


We introduced ourselves, neighbors—apparently he’s just moved in (from the compost pile--to the garage). We exchanged greetings--I relocated him to the rock garden. The stone wall will be a nice place to nestle into for cool fall days.


In a few years he’ll look just like Fred—long, dark, and handsome.


When we first moved here fifteen years ago, from a cooler, northern climate, finding a huge black rat snake on the front lawn was a big deal. And, I, nature-loving, hands-on, perpetual parent that I was, loved making every encounter with wildlife an opportunity for a science lesson.
That was my intention, one evening, years ago, when I met Fred. He was magnificent—a sleek, black beauty about 6 feet long.
Rat snakes make great pets because they tame easily (in a few minutes) and handle well—those strong, wave-like constrictions climb your arms as if they were branches—lace your fingers like a shoe.
But, that evening the girls weren’t home—maybe at a scout meeting or softball practice until dusk. And I needed a way to contain Fred until they could see him later—such a specimen he was. I grabbed a cast off terrarium from the garage shelf, complete with a wire mesh lid—from a time they’d had hamsters, years before—and tucked Fred inside.
He’d be safe on the kitchen table while I relaxed in the family room. The girls would be home soon.

Fred became more than a neighbor that evening. When I returned to the kitchen to greet the girls as they returned home, the top was off the terrarium, and Fred was nowhere in sight.
Did he slip inside a cabinet and into the wall behind, or through the gap separating the old and new portions of our house? However he managed it, he’s moved in. He's family.
In cool weather, we hear him cruising behind the upstairs bathroom wall, and on warm, sunny afternoons he hangs out from the eaves, right beside the west-facing gutter.

Yep. We’ve got our mouse problem under control. But I say a prayer every time dinner guests linger there, looking out our west-facing window.

Fred

We share our property with a good number of rat snakes.
Exactly what is a good number? Enough that we no longer make finding one a reason for finding someone else to share it with.
We’ve grown accustomed to finding eggs in the compost pile, hatchlings covering the lawn around the belly of our old hollow sycamore, and an occasional adult crossing the yard.
They’re welcome neighbors in this rural area. Outbuildings and bags of grain mean a steady supply of mice. We’d be up to our ears in the little whiskered critters, were it not for the snakes’ help.
Last week, this hatchling suddenly appeared by the back door in the time it took me to walk down and back from the mailbox. We introduced ourselves, neighbors—apparently he’s just moved in (from the compost pile--to the garage). We exchanged greetings--I relocated him to the rock garden. The stone wall will be a nice place to snuggle into for cool fall days.
In a few years he’ll look just like Fred—long, dark, and handsome.

When we first moved here, from a cooler, northern climate, finding a huge black rat snake on the front lawn was a big deal. And, I, nature-loving, hands-on, perpetual parent that I was, loved making every encounter with wildlife an opportunity for a science lesson.
That was my intention, one afternoon, years ago, when I met Fred. He was magnificent—a sleek, black beauty about 6 feet long.
Rat snakes make great pets because they tame easily (in a few minutes) and handle well—those strong, wave-like constrictions climb your arms as if they were branches—lace your fingers like a shoe.
But, the girls weren’t home just then—maybe at a scout meeting or softball practice for the evening. And I needed a way to contain Fred until they could see him later—such a specimen he was. I grabbed a cast off terrarium from the garage shelf, complete with a wire mesh lid—from a time we’d had hamsters, years before—and tucked Fred inside.
He’d be safe on the kitchen table while I watched TV in the family room. The girls would be home soon.

Fred became more a member of the family, than a neighbor that evening. When I returned to the kitchen to greet the girls as they returned home, the top was off the terrarium, and he was nowhere in sight.
Did he slip inside a cabinet and into the wall behind, or through the gap separating the old and new portions of our house? However he managed it, he’s moved in. In cool weather, we hear him cruising behind the bathroom wall, and on warm afternoons he hangs out from the eaves, right beside the west-facing gutter.
Yep. We’ve got our mouse problem under control. But I say a prayer every time dinner guests spend time, looking out our west-facing window.

On the road again

It’s always interesting to me, what different people notice, given the same experience.
How a seemingly obvious landmark can be overlooked by the very same person who retrieves a four-leaf clover from their path, or how the single memory of a week-long vacation can be the color of a waitresses nail polish.
We see what we look for, what is important to us--and remember it according to the impression it leaves with us. Each of us takes away that, which when measured against our unique ruler, is worthy.

So, these photos may not be the typical sights others would deem worthy of a tourist’s time…but I found them intriguing.
Colorful patches rimming each stately edifice—buzzing with bees in gloriously brilliant flowers. Carrying on about the business of life--while the days of fall set firmly in.





The most perfectly patient Monarch I’ve encountered all year.



And the geese and ducks that appreciate nicely manicured reflecting pools.




Can you tell where I’ve been?

I find I gravitate toward the natural world,
even when other sights surround me.
Maybe it’s a way to find comfort
in an environment in which I’m not really at ease.

Thin green line

Sunshine, cool breezes and just a hint of dew.


How quickly fall has settled in with its blue skies and crisp, fresh air. Last week's soybeans are now gone--dusty crumbles are all that remain of the golden field.



The corn bordering the lane has been harvested, too. The path I walk has suddenly become wide, open space.
Only a thin band of green borders the lane--a strip of life between these tired, now resting fields.
But life abounds there, in the green.
A caterpillar enjoys a blade of grass, warmed from last night's chill by the morning sun,


Lobelia struggles against the sturdy grasses of the ditch,


bright, fresh faces are kissed with dew,


and purple clusters gently sway.


Now is their time to shine.
This life in the thin, green line.

The close-ups of these flowers are beautiful.
The morning light could not have been a more perfect complement.