Gotcha!

Still no toads to be found in our pond or pools--but down the road, things are hopping!
American Toads, in their nighttime frenzy to find a mate--
boldly clasping anything (or anyone) who is near.

Picture this

Admittedly, most of my time this spring has been focused on areas other than the pond.
Two vernal pools within a few steps of my back door and the nocturnal creatures, drawn there from the woods to breed, have caught my eye—at least until I understand better exactly who they are and what they’re up to.

Last night at dusk, another chorister joined this celebration of spring. The American Toad—his voice a trill, long outlasting all other callers.

But each time I set off toward the pools, lantern in hand to locate his watery perch—I found nothing. Nothing, that is, except peepers—now calling with such enthusiasm, I raised the hood on my jacket to cover my ears.
They rang with the sound.

In the morning, I’ll return.
As the quiet settles over the big pond, to see, perhaps, if this is where they’re breeding.

Double strings of eggs—small and black, with white undersides, in fine lines of jelly—strewn across the plants in the shallows.
Very small and difficult to spot against the glare of the still water’s surface.
I hope to find them here.

I step carefully into the water, lifting each leg quite high as I step—not wanting to stir up the mud and muck. My big spotted feet sinking beneath the dense grasses at the edge—the water over my ankles.
My new glasses for old eyes, bifocals, make a casual glance at my toes, now impossible. My posture becomes much more deliberate—bent forward at the waist and peering straight down in order to see, facing the water at a close distance.

Another high, slow, calculated step.
I stop and stare. Craning my neck even further forward and cocking my head to the side, attempting to see more clearly.

No eggs or toads today.


A tall, stalking form.
In a blue and gray jacket.
This is for the birds.

"Miles to go..."

The year has come full circle.
My walking and watching, now passing its starting point.
One year’s time, captured and preserved.

I find myself asking if I have finished what I set out to do—record the beauty around me and set it in a light that others will find equally inspiring. Point a finger
toward what I fear many may not see, but could-- if they knew the reward in seeing it would be so great.

To make a note of the stories I’ve collected over time, ensuring they’ll be remembered--by me, if no one else.
Until I’ve caught them all, on a page, bound here.

As I walk behind the pond on this spring day, warm sunshine overhead, the dry leaves of the oak woods brittle beneath my feet, I recall last spring’s awakening and the discoveries that thrilled me. The joy of the first flowers’ arrival, turtles’ noses poking through the green of a summer pond, nesting birds, a growing garden, butterflies...
But what of this spring?
What newness will I find, that I have not already seen?
Perhaps I am finished.
Perhaps another year of the same will have less purpose.

There’s wisdom in the wildflowers.
Each one at my feet, brighter and more special than the last. The simplest fresh faces of spring, yet none diminished by my attention to its neighbor.
So common--yet each worthy of my admiration.






What an arrogant fool.
To think I have somehow seen all in a year’s days.
Or captured nature’s essence with my photographs.
Knowing now, that I will not truly see it all nor capture it here in a lifetime.

Hemlock woods

It almost seems a shame.
That these beautiful hemlocks were the backdrop to our wildflower hunt last weekend.
And that in autumn, when we seek fall color, they stand, again, in the background--a constant in the season of change.
Their deep color, dark and quiet.

I walked past each small trunk, a display of curls and rounded flaking bark.

Each so different from the last, yet obviously the same.


Like fingerprints--the furrows swirl.

From the darkness of their woods, we found a sunny spot for our lunch.
And looked above to find the that a bright blue sky made them glow a brilliant green.


The sky-- the perfect backdrop for their beauty.

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

Focus

Our old garage isn't much to look at.


In fact, some might say it's an eyesore.


Though broken and needy in many ways--I look past it.


There always seems to be something else that catches my eye.

Lingering

It happens quite often this time of year.
My frustration that the few beautiful days rarely coincide with my free time to enjoy them. Too often, I gaze out from behind glass--hoping there'll be daylight left to explore on my return from work that evening.
Disappointed, that the many days of damp gray will probably align themselves perfectly with the weekend.


But this morning was mine.
The periwinkle on the front bank has come forth from nowhere--
daintily curled blossoms unfurling in the bright morning sun.






What I had intended as a quick walk past the pond, soon became ant-watching.


Boulder after boulder placed atop the mound--they must've begun with the sun to have accomplished so much here--and, I'm sure, will continue their tireless efforts until it sets.

In the woods, as I approached Wood Pool, a large form flew from the trees--my owl. Her stubby profile so recognizable to me now--I watch until I can see her no more. Her refuge I'll not disturb. A family of owlets would like these deep dark woods. Their presence here makes these woods special.
Yesterday, she flew from the same perch.
And I wonder if she watches each night, as I count salamanders here in the dark.

I reluctantly turned to start back to the house--my pretty morning spent, the sunshine warm on my face and bare arms.

He has returned--the Tree Swallow who finds our bluebird houses the perfect place to raise a family.

And I recall the summer evenings watching them--coursing and dipping over this field.
Soon--very soon--there will be many days to enjoy.

Take a moment to find the ants in their anthills--

First flowers of the woods

I always look forward to the "firsts" of the season--the first calling frog, the first hungry hummingbird, the first sunning turtle.
And when the winter has cast the woods in brown for so long, I eagerly search for the first wildflowers of spring.
Those bright, joyful faces peeking through with such pure color. Yet unmuddied by rain. Their tender freshness lovely against the weathered leaves of the forest floor. The new life born of old.
It helps me mark time.

We lingered along the trail at Lake Katharine, finding ourselves in the midst of them--and wondered how it was that we alone enjoyed them there.
A man hurried past and called back over his shoulder to ask why I carried a camera.
Perhaps it is his habit to walk these trails each day. The lovely faces looking back at him now so commonplace that he does not need to pause to take them in.
Or maybe it is that he hurries past, never knowing they watch from beside the trail.

Virginia Spring Beauties

Round-lobed Hepatica

Bloodroot

Dutchmen's-breeches