River and Forest and Sky

The early spring flood recedes for now, affording fresh access to the old riparian byway. 

Youthful pines command the ridge on this side of the river, but on the channel's brink dwell the elders, too gnarled or brittle or bowed for the ax and saw; 

stolid old creatures fulfilling their best and highest use; tokens,

 reminders of what trees once were and yet may be...

towering ashes and gums, and the splendid, sprawling smooth-skinned sycamores.

High above the restless eddies, ragged brown blotches mar heaven's somber pall, 

a raucous tangle of branches, roots and vines; 

and just there, another; 

four jumbled nests in an ancient arbor's embrace. 

Before the question is uttered, the answer appears; resplendent reply!

A rookery.

Seated here on high, at the junction of river, forest and sky; 

crude, disheveled cribs, constructed by the aerobat, water walker, winged stalker, 

                                                                            Great Blue Heron.

Wandering wader; solitary seeker of the shallows; 

Denizen of ditch and drain, master of mudflat and marsh, hunter and haunt of lake and pond and river and stream.

Nest builder, food finder, silent sentinel, 

watcher by moonlight and piercer of noonday shadows, 

repeller of cormorant, coon and eagle.

For ages their kin have lived and thrived, born and bred and died, within this boundless realm
of river and forest and sky.

On the brink of tomorrow the river dwellers still are standing;

 standing still, at the junction of river and forest and sky.

Waxing Crescent...

Today’s high nearly hit ninety in the heart of Caroline, and with the cool of sun's setting, the wanderer feels the first (and second and third) mosquito bite(s) of the year, while a frenetic little furry flyer, fellow mammal, returns the mosquitos' bites by the light of the crescent moon.

A mere two rotations into the fourth month of her journey around the sun, Earth hurtles through space at unimaginable speed, marking her annual progress in terms of Selene's roughly thirty day circuits of Earth herself. 

Thanks to the phenomenon of relativity, we're rather oblivious to all this mind-boggling motion, free to stealthily stalk the source of tonight's Spring soundtrack; the thunderous, thrilling, tremulous trilling of the amorous toads, waxing in sync with the light of the crescent moon; 

 drunk, as it were, with desire (and moonshine).

The male, from his perch, trills tirelessly, 'til his enticements lure a female near enough to couple.

The ephemeral pond, filled to brimming with late winter's abundant rains, swims now with fertilized eggs, embryos near hatching; emergent tadpoles, tails unfurling, impending explosion of life and motion...

through the vastness of time and space, and right here in this little place, lit ever so dimly by our faithful waxing crescent.

The Sound of Spring

Beneath the myriad leafless giants and towering loblolly pines, a lonely wanderer wends his way through the lowland forest.

Last week's rain-swollen torrent well on its way to the sea by now, the swamp stands silent save for the steady chorus of Pseudacris crucifer, whose amphibious anthem heralds the advent of spring.

Red-tipped twigs of maple whisper softly of life renewed, and just there, along winter's barren vine, perch tender tufts of freshest green; they whisper, too, of spring.

Behind the scenes, another traveler plies the creekside path. 

Silent, for now. Unseen. Wild, untamed spirit. 

Later, he will speak. 

And the woods will fairly echo with the sound of spring.

Alas, so little of the seasons sees the wanderer;

least of all Spring. 

Thanksgiving

Slender stems cast long shadows in the western wood as late-winter sun begins its setting. 

Lifeless leaves, bronzed by the beams of February's final hours, set the stage for a flickering show of shades, cavorting in the chilly breeze upon the forest floor. 

Amidst the flickering shadows, a hundred dozen golden pixies dance among living leaves of purple and green, born anew from death and damp and decay.

Carnival of blooms, a miniature Mardi Gras, Mystic Krewe of Erythronium, the floral avant-garde, heralding the resurrection and the life that are Spring.

Diminutive dancers, timeless testament to the tenacity of life. 

A performance repeated a thousand thousand times, here in the silent wood; 

a mere four dozen cycles coincident with the one called mine.

Too many I've missed. 

What moved me here, on just this day, at just this hour?

A dance; and too, a song, or perhaps a prayer...

"For the beauty of each hour, 

of the day and of the night,

hill and vale, and tree and flower,

sun and moon, and stars of light,

Lord of all, to thee we raise,

this our hymn of grateful praise."

"For The Beauty of the Earth"

-F.S. Pierpoint

On Sun-Drenched Wings...

High on the massive rock-strewn face of the dam, turkey vulture shuffles its lanky frame on the head of a rusty pipe.

Waiting. 

Watching. 

Waiting as the damp and chill of darkness redouble their retreat.

Watching as light and warmth wink playfully from the depths of the riparian forest at its feet.

At long last, the sun's steady gaze elicits an instinctive response, millions of years in the making. No thought required; back turning, muscles flexing, feathers spreading, blood flowing, buzzard embraces the revivifying rays.

Immediate, 

infectious, 

irresistible.

Empowering.
Liberating.

Away, my awe-inspiring flyer; 

gravity has no hold on you. 

Away to join that blazing star 

in its journey across the blue.

While I, with feet like stones on the rocky shore,

Watch in wingless wonder as you soar.

Black and White and Gray

The ubiquitous northern mockingbird, among the most common and recognizable songbirds of North America today. 

Black and white and gray.

This handsome specimen was hanging out in the wintry weather among the wild rosebushes along the Endor Trail and Greenway in Sanford, NC.

This now-abundant avian was nearly eliminated from the wild along the east coast of the U.S. during the 1800's;
such was the demand for these tireless crooners as pets. 

Why, a wise woman once wondered, does the caged bird sing?

It's song, she surmised, was a prayer.

Many is the morning I've awakened well before dawn to the sound of a decidedly un-caged male proffering song after song. A prayer perhaps, or maybe a plea...

Next time you're walking through the park or even strolling along a city sidewalk, keep an eye and ear out for the highly territorial mockingbird;
then stick around long enough for it to belt out a few bars...you'll be glad you did!

Murder, Exaltation, Parliament, Quarrel or Raft?

None of the above. 

A group of gulls is simply a flock.

Crowds of crows and larks and owls and sparrows and ducks may have more exotic brands, but when it comes to the controlled chaos that is a fast flying, free wheeling, fun loving, food chasing flock, gulls more than hold their own with any of the other feathered fauna.

Hunter's lens captured these brilliant aerial acrobats in action over the icy pond at Sanford's Riverbirch Shopping Center.

Frozen mid-flap, these raucous mavericks reveal a startling symmetry;

seemingly chaotic near misses become cleverly coordinated maneuvers.

Alike in altitude, direction, speed; these birds of a feather are masters of flocking together.

Each, however, maintains a degree of separation from its neighbors; 

aloft in the clouds,

alone in the crowd.