A Perfect Tree - Polychrome Version

Bald eagle wheeled high overhead against the bright blue sky for a moment or two before soaring away at breathtaking speed. 

A good omen, we figured, as we headed west in its wake, embarking on this year's version of our annual quest for the perfect Christmas tree.

Fast forward twenty-four hours...

cold, fog and a heavy drizzle, 

and we are the only non-natives stirring along the crest of the Blue Ridge.

Young folk grazing eye the strangers' passing with mild curiosity before fading soundlessly into the mist like spirits of ancient Appalachia.

A little farther up, we dismount at a likely looking spot and pause for a portrait before inching our way forward along the ledge.

The rain intensifies as we enter a rhododendron thicket near the falls, 

and the galax at our feet glistens in the cold and damp.

The firs and spruce dwelling here by the stream are much too tall and lanky, 

nowhere near the perfect tree, 

so we make our way farther up the mountain still...

A thousand feet higher, 

far beyond the babbling of the brook,

galax is here on the heath as well, mingling on the margins with wintergreen.

Relentless rain puddles on the barren bald; 

freeze tonight and thaw again on the morn, 

converting ancient stone to fresh new soil, 

one grain at a time.

And from this softened stone rises moss and galax and grass, 

then rhododendron and blueberry and pine. 

Pine;

stunted by the wind and ice and dearth of dirt; 

yet evergreen and shapely, 

the perfect tree?

Perhaps, we think, but who would dare to cut such trees as these?

Ancient, gnarled survivors, bowed but not broken by nature's nastiest blows.

So we linger and admire these perfect trees,

and we pose for a picture or three,

imagining, 

with just a hint of envy,

the adventures they enjoy

and the sights and sounds and sensations they experience

here in their home 

on top of the world.

And then we make our way down,

leaving behind their mountaintop abode,

paths converging near the base of the slope,

a clear consensus building,

a knowing that comes from the head and the heart. 

This year's Christmas tree, just like the last, and the one before that,

was planted and watered and fed and groomed

on a farm in the valley,

where our one perfect tree, among thousands, 

waits patiently in the rain for our arrival.

A Perfect Tree

Bald eagle wheeled high overhead against the bright blue sky for a moment or two before soaring away at breathtaking speed. 

A good omen, we figured, as we headed west in its wake, embarking on this year's version of our annual quest for the perfect Christmas tree.

Fast forward twenty-four hours...

cold, fog and a heavy drizzle, 

and we are the only non-natives stirring along the crest of the Blue Ridge.

Young folk grazing eye the strangers' passing with mild curiosity before fading soundlessly into the mist like spirits of ancient Appalachia.

A little farther up, we dismount at a likely looking spot and pause for a portrait before inching our way forward along the ledge.

The rain intensifies as we enter a rhododendron thicket near the falls, 

and the galax at our feet glistens in the cold and damp. 

The firs and spruce dwelling here by the stream are much too tall and lanky, 

nowhere near the perfect tree, 

so we make our way farther up the mountain still...

A thousand feet higher, 

far beyond the babbling of the brook,

galax is here on the heath as well, mingling on the margins with wintergreen.

Relentless rain puddles on the barren bald; 

freeze tonight and thaw again on the morn, 

converting ancient stone to fresh new soil, 

one grain at a time.

And from this softened stone rises moss and galax and grass, 

then rhododendron and blueberry and pine. 

Pine;

stunted by the wind and ice and dearth of dirt; 

yet evergreen and shapely, 

the perfect tree?

Perhaps, we think, but who would dare to cut such trees as these?

Ancient, gnarled survivors, bowed but not broken by nature's nastiest blows.

So we linger and admire these perfect trees, 

and we pose for a picture or three, 

imagining, 

with just a hint of envy, 

the adventures they enjoy

and the sights and sounds and sensations they experience

here in their home 

on top of the world.

And then we make our way down,

leaving behind their mountaintop abode,

paths converging near the base of the slope,

a clear consensus building, 

a knowing that comes from the head and the heart. 

This year's Christmas tree, just like the last, and the one before that,  

was planted and watered and fed and groomed

on a farm in the valley,

where our one perfect tree, among thousands, 

waits patiently in the rain for our arrival.

Color It Fall In Carolina

The old barn's still there, 

boards dry and brittle in the cold autumn sun. 

Cotton looks good this year; 

bolls plump and white to bursting.

Looks like snow.

It's not, but it sure is cold enough for it...

too darn cold for November.

Six feet of snow in Buffalo.

I'll take the cold and the cotton, and color it fall in Carolina.

Home Is Where the Hawk Is

The red-shouldered hawk is a native, medium-to-large hawk of forested habitat with a definite affinity for water. It is not unusual to observe it perching near a pond or river or swamp, eyes peeled for the slightest movement that might betray the location of its next meal.

But when that perch and pond happen to be located in the midst of one of the largest commercial and residential developments in the Triangle area of North Carolina, we pause to reflect on some of our long-held notions about "the wild" and "nature" and " the natural environment." 

A quick glance at our surroundings reveals hundreds of apartments and condominiums within sight of this little pond. The development is bisected by a small but busy street, upon which several dozen cars pass during the ten minutes or so we spend observing this impressive wild creature. 

This is not the wild. 

It is not nature. 

It would be a stretch to call it a natural environment for anything other than yuppies. 

In this drastically modified environment, it is difficult not to imagine the hawk as a visitor, a wanderer, even an intruder in this carefully planned and constructed human development.
A slightly more generous view might identify the wild animal as a straggler, a solitary remnant of a once-wild place that lagged a bit too far behind the herd and found itself abandoned, left to its own devices in an altered and decidedly unnatural landscape.

But sitting here eye to eye and face to face with this magnificent and formidable predator, our view is altered. 

This animal is not lost or abandoned, neither is it visiting or intruding.

It is living.

 This pond, this space, this scattering of trees, all of this place is its home, just as it has been home to countless generations of red-shouldered hawks before. 

Face to face, and eye to eye, we wonder. 

We wonder at this marvelous creature and the wild, untamed spirit that peers back at us from those deep, dark eyes, 

and suddenly we are the visitors, the wanderers.

Face to face, and eye to eye, 

we marvel at its beauty, its intelligence, strength, and tenacity;
we marvel at its grace and patience and remarkable aplomb in the face of camera-toting intruders in its ancestral home.

We marvel and we wonder and we recognize a fellow traveler, 

a survivor, adapting to relentless changes in its environment, undaunted, 

alert and ready for the challenges that accompany this and every new day;
and we feel right at home...

Thanks to Jay Randolph for sharing his hawk pictures for this post.