This morning while I was outside with my students observing nature so we could write haiku, we saw a meadowlark land near some dandelions and walk into what could only be described as a forest since most of the stems rose well above the bird’s head. I listed it as one of my observations.
Later, looking over my list, I wanted to write a poem that was basically just a sentence and then play with different ways of breaking the lines. I tried several permutations but settled on something resembling “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams, which I had just read in Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook.
Two other versions:
Were dandelions tall as trees
would we follow the meadowlark
into such a yellow forest
where flowers tower overhead
and the only thing we hear
is the clamorous buzz of bees?
—
Were dandelions tall as trees, would we follow the meadowlark into such a yellow forest where flowers tower overhead and the only thing we hear is the clamorous buzz of bees?
I ask the egret what makes him great. He smiles his bird smile and tells me of forbidden passion and how he loved and lost a snowy egret once. Held great roosts on the other side of the pond, invited all the shorebirds, hoping—just hoping—she’d maybe wade up his shore. At night he stood one-legged in a tree, ignoring the herons all around, while he studied the faint light reflected in the rippling water across the pond—I stop him there, tell him it sounds like he’s cribbing this story from Fitzgerald. Yes, he says, returning to the present, it’s true, it’s true, but there is no copyright for the heart, and besides… she was so beautiful and it was spring and the stars were bright and we were fledglings in the days of love.
egret reflections
ripple the still pond
echoes fade
When my wife was growing up in Orange, Texas, Shangri La was a mystery. In the 1950’s, it was Lutcher Stark’s private garden, which he opened to the public. After it was destroyed by a snowstorm in 1958, Stark let it go wild and it became a dark and wild place walled off from the outside world. R has told me of the legends that grew up around the place and the stories people invented for what went on inside.
It seems that what was happening is that birds were nesting, alligators and snakes were thriving and nature was doing its thing. A few years ago, the Stark Foundation reopened it as Shangri La Botanical Gardens & Nature Center. It’s no longer much of a mystery, but it’s still wild.
American alligator (juvenile)
We visited last summer when the egrets and roseate spoonbills were nesting, and I even got some decent shots of the spoonbills and their nestlings from the bird blind. This time, since it wasn’t so hot, we were able to see more of the area. One of the first things we saw was the above young alligator sunning on a pond near the nature center. I’ve seen the adults in the wild but never a baby and didn’t realize the young sported such a brightly contrasting tail.
Osprey
The boat tour through Adams Bayou gave us a look at an osprey that kept circling over the water. I’ve only seen these guys a few times and never when I had a camera on me, so I tried. I was hoping he would dive, but he seemed content to circle.
Eventually we came to the outpost where there is a massive beaver pond that’s unconnected to the bayou. The beavers moved away a few years ago, but their pond remains, the water thick and covered in a layer of very small fern that from a distance looks like a perfectly planed layer of mud.
Beaver pond
While the guide was describing the ecology of the region, the boat driver was busily collecting snakes. It was a little disconcerting how quickly and easily he found a water moccasin and a Texas rat snake. He released the moccasin so we could get a look at it. Its bold pattern surprised me, but he explained that this was a juvenile and they grow darker and lose the contrast as they age.
Water moccasin
After the trip up the Bayou, we walked through the grounds toward the heronry. The fish crows were conversing in the trees and as we walked closer we could hear the sqronks of the egrets and cormorants.
Fish crow
Nesting season really gets going in April and May when you can see anhingas, cattle and great egrets, roseate spoonbills and double-crested and neotropic cormorants by the thousands. Things were still getting underway for this year and the first spoonbill had only arrived a few days earlier (we didn’t see him), but it was a thrill to sit in the blind and watch these beautiful birds. I didn’t get any decent shots this time, and in all honesty, I didn’t try too hard since I think it’s good to sometimes just watch and be.
There was a volunteer birder working in the blind to talk about the birds and their lives. He told us that in the summer many of the egrets and spoonbill nestlings fall from their nests and since they can’t swim, they’re quickly snapped up by the alligators that lurk below the nests. I thought back to that baby alligator and couldn’t help but be reminded of the old saying “the bigger they are the cuter the ain’t,” which certainly applies to alligators even if they are just doing the job assigned to them by nature.
Old house by the heronry
This is the only shot of the heronry that I liked. The wrecked house in front is from the early days before that snowstorm in ’58. Those white things in the trees behind it are great egrets sitting on their nests.
The grackles opened
Like gates in the trees
Shadow birds, eyes glistening
You could almost imagine
These noisy shades
Abandoning tangible birds,
Parking lots and steel dumpsters
In their odyssey through
Suburban woods,
Clacking and creaking
Like machines or clocks
Ticking away the last
Hoarse seconds of winter.
On Sunday, we visited the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center with the family. The kids were fascinated by the turtles hanging out on the edge of a pond. I saw the red stripes behind the eyes and the birder in me thought, “Wow. That’s a convenient field mark.” Of course, I had no idea what kind of turtles these were or what that red stripe might signify.
My three-year-old niece had her own opinion about what kind of turtles these were. The big one was the daddy, the medium one was the mommy and the baby was on his mommy’s back. She pointed out another turtle basking alone on the other side of the pond and told us that that one was in time out.
We walked around the grounds and I began to wonder why I don’t keep lists and try to identify other animals as I’ve done with birds the past three years. I’ve learned so much about birds—their varieties, habits and habitats and where they fit into their ecosystems. This doesn’t even factor in how I’ve honed my observational skills. I want to know the world, not just one class of its animals.
After observing a Western Scrub Jay perched atop one of the live oaks—my first life bird for 2010—I decided, why not start life lists for the other classes. As with birds, I don’t intend to go chasing around trying to hit a certain number or goal, I just want to know what I see. I want to know this world, especially the little piece of it I call home. I want to know it on a deeper level than just turtle, bug or bat.
When we got home, I broke out my Audubon Society field guide to reptiles and amphibians. The turtles we had seen were Red-eared Sliders, a subspecies of Pond Sliders (Trachemys scripta elegans). I’ve seen them before and even posted a picture last year, though back then it was just a turtle. These Red-eared sliders are actually the turtles I see most frequently on my walks around the neighborhood, usually stacked up on the spillway in the pond. They were even the subject of a micro-poem that was featured at a handful of stones.
I’m going through the guides now, trying to seed my lists with the species I know I have seen. There are many I’ve only seen on a superficial level, but the ones I’ve seen, I’m now taking the time to read a little bit about. It never ceases to amaze me how much there is to see and how easily it can be taken for granted.
There are some things that make the world spin a little slower. One of those is snow in Austin. Not the icy rain and sleet we get every few years that shuts the city down, but real snow. The light fluffy stuff you can use to make snow men and snowballs to hurl at your colleagues in the parking lot.
I work a good fifteen miles north of where I live and up there, the snow really accumulated and even covered the grass in some of the nearby fields. Along the neighborhood trails, there wasn’t quite as much, but it was good enough for someone to make this pissed off looking snow man. He’s probably upset that it’ll be sunny with highs in the 50s tomorrow when spring comes back.
After work, I took a walk down the trail to see what it looks like in snow, since it hasn’t snowed since we’ve lived here. I walked to the bridge, figuring the area around it would have the greatest accumulation, but the trail had been well-walked today. I took the above picture thinking it might make a nice contrast with this one I took last summer.
I walked down to the pond to check on the ducks (Gadwalls, Ring-necked and American Wigeon). They were huddled together in the reeds on the near shore. I watched them paddle about and tried to think of when it’s snowed like this here.
I don’t remember ever seeing real snow accumulating in the 22 years I’ve lived here other than one day in Dallas when all of us working at a video editing company stood out on the fire escape and watched it snow while the pawn shop next door burned down.
No fires today, which is fine since it wasn’t really all that cold by the time I got out on the trail. Most of the snow had melted off and there wasn’t much in the way of accumulation, but it was nice to see the trail in a different way, which is, I think, the magic of snow days when you live in a place that doesn’t have them.
These kind of days are good for their slow stillness and silence and the way sometimes nature changes the rules just a bit to remind us to stop and pay attention.
On the way back home, I saw these sticks poking out of the snow. They reminded me of runes, though I have no idea what they might mean. If they said anything, perhaps they were one more reminder to witness the mystery and be awed by it.
A Ladder-backed Woodpecker, which did not show up in these counts
Since finishing my small year, I’ve enjoyed going back to not counting birds quite so much. I’m still participating in Project FeederWatch and I did the Great Backyard Bird Count the weekend before last, but it’s good to just enjoy the birds for what they are instead of as checks on a list.
Still, I do like participating in these citizen science projects and so I’m list blogging, which seems hardly worthy of the Kreativ Blogger Award kindly bestowed on my by Angie at woman, ask the question.
For the GBBC, I counted along the pond trail after work on Friday and then stuck with my backyard on Saturday and Sunday, which are my Project FeederWatch count days anyway. I didn’t do a GBBC count on Monday.
This year’s count yielded no surprises. I haven’t seen anything new in the neighborhood or in my yard this year, and I haven’t seen any American Goldfinches. Maybe the Lesser Goldfinches have claimed the yard, but last year I regularly saw both species.
And here are the counts. The numbers in parentheses indicate the greatest number of individuals seen at one time…
Does the hummingbird know
the vastness of the Gulf of Mexico
when land is lost from sight?
Oil rigs and shrimping boats—
fast-blurred memories, random ghosts afloat
where sky and sea seem one.
Is there any inkling
of monsters below that other ceiling
birds can scarce imagine?
Tiny feathered jewel,
leagues from any flower’s nectar fuel,
how do you know the way?
Above those trackless seas,
in doldrum times of windless apogee,
one heart of pebble’s size
pounds alone against the gulf,
pounds alone against the world.
—
One of the most amazing bird migrations is that of the Ruby-throated Hummingbird. On its southbound journey from eastern North America to its wintering grounds in Central and South America, it flies up to 500 miles nonstop over the Gulf of Mexico.
