6.22.13 Dreaming From The Solstice

“Just hang on there”

she murmured to the porter

long hair caught in his sleeve buttons

dreams wedged in a memoried throat

The massive car swerving to the

right as she pulled herself

up from sleep, 60 year old self

arrested from the story

Eyes creased, light stunned

peering out the windows

the whole of the world rumbling by

the porter on to the next

Drawn about her, remnants

of yesterday, tomorrow

as starlings in a song

swaying through the neighborhood

Only if you look up

ever shall you notice

that parenthetical ease

of the pace of this train

6.19.13 Nestled in The Universe

Well, I hope everyone is enjoying their June.

Around here, people have finished whining about winter and shoveling and ice, and are having a respite til they begin whining about heat and humidity and mosquitoes and either too much....or too little...rain- ( you get to whine about either one ).

Myself, I am needing to cut back on work due to health stuff....so I'm going by the river to be fed by it's gloriousness more often.

And decided I just wanted to make a little bloglet entries about riverlove and all, so I did.

Just because, when I'm walking there, I look up and I feel how it's this little patch of earth, not so different than yours, and its such a blessing to frequent it and get to know it so closely...so that you never ever say to yourself 

‘Oh where did June go??",  because you KNOW where June went. You were right there, every single day , watching it ease itself along from one moment, all the creatures and living things, to the next. You too.

 I just stand there thinking about how at this...this  very moment, we are on the earth , which is spinning, about how if you zoomed up from my little place by the river where my feet are nestled in the long wet grass, you would spot the places each of you..and more of us all...are perched or fluttering or standing, and then you would zoom up further....and there would be the earth, in its entirety.

And then you would zoom up further, and there would be our galaxy, and our universe, and then the......the veritable, unquestionable, unfathomable ...endlessness.

And that is what I am steeped in...when I walk along the Connecticut. So yeah, I decided to make tiny bloglet mutterings to stick photos of what my little place on earth was looking like and smelling like and bustling about like...most days.

6.17.13 RiverLove

The range was so beautiful today, rain splattering, gullies filled with fresh rainfall, everything sodden after so many unusual June days of rain. The forest was filled with the sound of the rushing stream, the waterfall, the millions of water droplets falling, falling from the branches of the trees the woods over. What a symphony. 

Here, my little bear German Shepherd pup rambled off-leash for the second time, and was simply amazed at the hills, the sudden drop off of land down to the stream bed, the waterfall, the delight of running on the soft bed of old pine needles as smells filtered to both of us and the silence, save that of wind and water, surrounded us.

People here have taken to actually checking the weather reports for the days it WON'T be raining, farmer's fields swamped, some backroads closed off due to flooding. Those of us with seedlings keep covering and uncovering them, in a vain attempt to prevent rot, but what can the farmers do, but hope?

Yet some are pleased as punch with the temporary field ponds we usually have only in early spring...and of course our beloved water table is flourishing. 

We had three young neighborhood Wild Turkey hens, coming by day after day, crossing the street from the range over to the field next door, then making their way down to the Connecticut. But some driver raced by and caught one sweet hen, and then there were two. Who kept coming by day after day, but I did not see them cross over to the range any longer. Last week, one settled down in a small round garden in which I had planted squash seeds, and she looked so delighted I didn't have the heart to run her off. I considered it, but as I stepped outside, she went to the ground, small head poking up watching, so I turned on my heel, smiling, and returned to the house.

Yesterday, I peeked out the kitchen window to see not two, but three turkeys  wandering by, eating our grubs nicely and watching cautiously . The two hens had found a  young Tom whom they seemed to like, thank you very much. 

Vital for keeping watch when they are growing their eggs and chowing down with such serious intent, the poor Tom fluffing his feathers at every questionable encounter  until his poor feathers tire and his fluff up results in a few half mast feather efforts, and no more. 

Later, these young ones will join a larger flock of  young and old, to wander, at dawn, searching for small delectable  insects and seeds and such. 

Down on the Connecticut, Mallard pairs, Merganser Ducks, 

Hawks of many kinds, and an enormous Cedar Waxwing community are thriving, singing happily in the rain and insect-thick sunsets, while intermittent floods of young fish come down the river in waves, covering the surface with their nibbling mouths, gobbling up the evening's offering of small flying meals, as one wonders which fish eggs hatched this time. 

An elegant Great Blue Heron stands on the banks, enjoying an endless binge of easy pickings.

 In the meantime, the hills are filled with blossoming Mountain Laurel, elusive Bloodroot, and Lady slippers sprinkled throughout the woods.

One of the advantages of having a dog. Or two. Or three, if you have a visitor, is that you MUST go for walks. The larger the dog, the more frequent and longer the walks. The almost 16 year old needs small snuffling meanders, so I give these to her on various sidewalked neighborhoods in town, to keep things interesting. The pup needs places to learn about off leash and train and explore, so the range and woods are perfect for that. On our way across the street to the forest a few days ago,  I spotted two Peregrine Falcons doing a wild, speed mating dance ranging across the skies, sending all the Broadwing and Redtail Hawks fleeing the neighborhood, lest they end up blood lust fuel for the falcons. Falcons move with such undeniable speed and facility, swerving and twisting in flight in ways no Hawks manage. Their wing tips are turned down into a sharp point, and their every move is economy and beauty. We have falcons that nest annually at nearby Umass, and at times they venture in this direction, causing all kinds of excitement to the Audubon people, when I call and report in a sighting. 

When we entered the woods, damp and fragrant, I took the 13 week old pup off his leash, and, struck by leashlessnes, he stayed by my side with the exception of discovering the waterfall, which was really too much to expect anyone to stay by anyone's side, don't you think??

 He was simply amazed at the hills, the sudden drop off of land down to the stream bed, the waterfall, the delight of running on the soft bed of old pine needles as smells filtered to both of us and the silence, save that of wind and water, surrounded us.

The next wet wet day, we went by The Northampton State Hospital, or The Dog Park, as we dog people call the woods. Years ago I knew the hospital well,  when I managed residential homes and helped clients come and go from the hospital when they needed to, listening  to both horrible and tender memories different individuals had. Now the buildings are gone, the field at the end of the lane has a large anonymous grave of so many people, finally a few years ago acknowledged by a small plaque. 

It continued to pour, as we strolled down through the woods and onto the path, greeting the happiest dogs in the happiest dog place in town. 

6.19.13 RiverLove

 Bundling impatient dogs into the car, we head the few miles down to the river,

 passing by a local farmer’s field, where everything glistens from last night’s sprinkling. 

With all the  recent rain, the path today is deliciously muddy and sloppy, 

the old dog not finding this useful, the young one completely delighted.

In the meantime, the waters are full of debris washed away from the rains, logs 

and branches, some trees across the way actually downed. 

If you look closely, there is another group of fishlings making their way downstream, their small mouths gobbling evening insects that conveniently cluster just above the water, small circlets, thousands, as the swift current carries them away. How many creatures here depend upon mosquitoes and other less than desirable insects for their very survival.

This is what snuffling officially looks like, being a major occupation of when you are canine and almost 16. Snuffling involves training your person to accept that they are no longer at any  helm as far as you are concerned, and to patiently follow their every single desire. Walk here. Stop here. So they get the first go at a walk, devoid of annoying 3 month old pups, a moment of peace and quiet and self-determination, as people pass by, ask her age, (almost 16) ask if she can see ( mostly no) hear (not that well) smell- a champion.

 Tonight, asleep on her (our) her bed, she smelled most probably a bear going by, as it was a 3 alarm dog alert- up and barking and the whole ruff up, head to tail, as the pup watched and listened and learned, sniffing the air expectantly. So yeah, smell. Hence, the pleasure of…river snuffling. Up northerly is my office, where i can wander outside after work, and slip down the old hidden wood staircase to the river’s sharp curve, and stand watching the branches trailing in the current, the calls of those who spend their lives on the riverbanks.

The wind comes up, the enormous space-ship cloud formation shifts,

 and almost covers us in cloud-glory. 

The brush growing rapidly from all the precipitation, getting its root systems prepared, going as fast as they can, in genetic recognition of the predictable dry spell July and August will bring, where they simply sustain themselves until fall’s heavy nighttime’s dew provides a reprieve.

 There are small secret places within the brush, where, if you peer within, there are the river’s waters rushing by far below. You catch a glimpse of birds living quietly , the swaths cut by larger wildlife, who wait until you are far away at home and fast asleep , to safely make their way down to the water’s edge for a cool drink, a dip, and river sustenance.

Walking along the path, half the people greet you, 90% obsess about the pup. 

At a certain point, I hear the noisy plop of a surprised beaver, 

submersing themselves til I pass away and they have their safe privacy once again.

 Leaves and grasses are still covered with droplets, from last night's rain.

Finally the old dog is done, and somehow always knows the direction to the car, nestling in her front seat (the place of power, just like when we were all little, with siblings or cousins and all, so it is with canines. Funny. ) 

And out bounces the pup, ready for his turn to run and race and pounce and 

hurl himself into the brush, smoosh his pup nose into mud, dig, roll ,

 and ensure his adequate muddled coverage for the ride back. 

One more beautiful peaceful evening at the river.