Day 29 Outdoors: Another Sunrise Over the Meadow

Tuesday, September 25, 7:30-8:45 a.m.

After several chilly days of rain, yesterday was clear and sunny with gale-force winds. At last, this morning, both clear sky and calm stillness came together. Before sunrise there was hardly a breeze stirring and only a few fleecy, small clouds near the horizon.

This time of year the meadow is a dessicated miniature jungle, a tangle of drying stalks and leaves and seeds. Queen-Anne’s lace has curled up to shape itself into brittle bird’s-nest cages, and the little grey-headed coneflowers have dropped their petals, leaving heavy, dark seedheads that bow the tall stems. Grasses rustle, their heads also heavy with seed, leaves beginning to curl.

A little bird throws its voice like a ventriloquist, sounding first here, then there, but always just out of sight. There are crows in the middle distance, calling to each other on crow business. Canada geese wing by overhead. One unbalanced V flies south, its left leg longer than its right, and half an hour later a ragged line of more geese crosses the sky from east to west, their voices audible long before they come into sight.

As the sun comes up over the dark trees of the eastern woods, it creates a band of light on the meadow, leaving the intermediate orchard trees in shade. Higher and higher climbs the sun, and as it climbs a breeze starts up and keeps pace, stirring the leaves of maple, popple, and catalpa more vigorously as the light increases. Finally the sun is blazing through the weeds. It lights up strands of spiderweb that tremble and gleam and dance. Morning has broken.

Day 18 Outdoors: Meadow at Daybreak

Wednesday, May 23, 5:50 - 7:00 a.m.

Before daylight the bird chorus began. There is a bank of cloud on the horizon to the east, dark, but low enough that the sun will clear it only slightly later than its light would otherwise reach the meadow. Near the ground cool air stirs gently. It is a morning for looking, watching, seeing; for listening and hearing; for feeling the air in all its subtle movement. For being here.

The meadow was a hayfield for a long time. One summer a decade or more ago it was a cornfield, but since then it has simply been a meadow. It is uncultivated but somewhat managed. One corner seeded with native wildflowers, a strip seeded with native grasses, it is bordered on two sides by young orchard, on one side by wooded bank above the no-name creek, and the fourth side by old farmyard and popple grove. The autumn olive is kept at bay by persistent effort. The meadow was mowed last year, in early summer, but nature wants it to be woods again. Deep-rooted alfalfa, dark green and healthy, persists in spotty clumps through the grass, as do last year’s dry goldenrod, milkweed, and Queen Anne’s lace, but there are also, far out from the more recently seeded areas, wild grapevine, clumps of red osier, and seedlings of maple, black walnut, and box elder. Once in a while a pine seedling appears.

Sounds sort themselves out spatially: rooster to southwest, woodpecker to the east, crows off in the distant south, traffic to the west. Nearer, in the silver maples of the farmyard, robins sing. After a while, though, all other sounds become background to one nearby chik-chik-chik. A very plain sound. The sparrow uttering the dry note perches on a brittle stalk of last year’s milkweed and balances with continual small adjustments, so that any still photograph or drawing of this little bird would be false. Its tail and wings flick constantly, and the bird itself looks about and changes position incessantly, never still for two consecutive moments. Streaky chest, black breast patch. A song sparrow but only giving its repetitive call note. Too early for singing?

Light increases, reaches higher, the dark cloudbank giving way to diffuse, trailing scarves. As at dusk, the cool air rises from the ground, and the breeze gains momentum with the rising sun, as if eager to be in motion after the stillness of night.

Another small bird on another dry milkweed, this one surprisingly more musical than the song sparrow, keeps its head tucked down between choruses but stretches its head, beak upward, to trill its song. These birds have no idea how tiny they are and how big the world is, but the world of this small meadow is all-sufficient to the break of day--the cool morning air, a clump of young black walnut, a nervously twitching sparrow, another bird’s throaty, trilling song, and the clouds evaporating by degrees as the sun clears the tops of the trees.

Day 12 Outdoors: Civilization and Its Discontents

Tuesday, March 20, 5:00-6:15 p.m.

The spring equinox arrived in the night, and today will be as long as that night, but the temperature is more that of a summer day, almost that of the summer solstice. Out in the relatively open ground of yard, meadow and orchard the birds vocalize and flit and feed and preen: robins, bluebirds, woodpeckers, sparrows, red-wing blackbirds and crows. The gurgling melody of the song sparrow rises above the crows’ rusty calls, but inside the edge of the Eastern Woods, where the descending afternoon light reaches in through leafless branches, a quiet calm prevails, disturbed only by the buzzing of large summery flies. The flies heard the call of a small, freshly broken branch, oozing fresh sap, and first came one, crawling quickly and greedily about the sapling’s trunk, shortly joined by two more. From how far away did they sense the banquet, and how?

Below the tree with the flies spreads a perfect jumble of human refuse, the smallest corner a confusion of broken lines and rust, objects half buried and parts of other objects thrown on top of the heap. It is an unofficial farm dump, a tradition of country living. The pile includes wood of all kinds—broken crates, pallets, boards, an old wooden soft drink crate and discarded chairs, with one large fallen tree and many branches mixed in. There are also sheets of metal, sections of old furnace ducting, a kettle, an old charcoal grill or two, rusty appliances and more than one old sugaring pail. There are concrete blocks and wheels, bits of screen and old doors. It’s hard to find anything that is whole and unblemished. Maybe impossible. One old wooden trunk has so rotted out that the old leather handles hang in black, twisted scraps, and light penetrates into the formerly secret interior.

Man is part of nature, too. There is no separation between the branches and the boards, all tumbled together, and the wild leeks and spring beauties are undeterred by the presence of manufactured refuse. An old alarm clock, missing its hands, crawls with tiny ants. This place is as peaceful as a cemetery. Through the trees, in the west, Lake Michigan is bright blue.

Day 11 Outdoors: Between Woods and Orchard

Wednesday, March 14, 9:10-10:00 a.m.

The sun rises considerably farther to the north this time of year. As it clears the canopy of the Eastern Woods, the east-facing edge of Claudia’s Woods is drenched in light, while to the north, bordering the youngest block of cherries and the old hayfield, popples on the south bank of the stream show sharp contrast on their trunks, one side sunlit, the other shaded.

Edges are productive places to spot birds, and songbirds began returning this past Sunday. The east-facing edge of Claudia’s Woods is open to cherry orchard, orchard blocks bounded on the opposite side by the Eastern Woods. Here at the edge, woodland, orchard, meadow, two-track and utility lines provide a variety of bird habitat. On Tuesday morning two bluebirds flitted about in this vicinity, and young trees at the woods-edge were full of robins. This morning was quieter. Birds were audible and nearby but not right at hand.

Many pine trees suffered heavy damage after the recent storm, boughs breaking under wet snow. Large branches from a young red pine lay at the edge of the old farm lane, needles (in bundles of two) soft green still and fragrant with sap. The cones are attached at the ends of branches, tight to the tips.

Four Canada geese fly high overhead, and one honks at regular intervals. They are winging north. Besides this robust quartet, an occasional smaller bird crosses the open space of the meadow or orchard. A single robin flying across the otherwise empty immensity of blue sky looks tiny and brave.

A mourning dove alights on the power line along the lane, constantly adjusting its weight for precarious balance. With its small delicate head, long tapering tail, and gracefully swollen body, its shape is reminiscent of an old carved fertility goddess. Its colors, too, recall the Madonna, all soft cream and taupe.

The sun warms as it mounts. A soft southern breeze feels semitropical. The wooded hill blocks traffic noise from M-22, but a single car way over east on Jelinek Road delivers a long drawn-out dull roar long before it appears in binocular sight between stacked layers of tilled field strips. Here at the edge of the woods a few patches of snow remain. The last of the season? Maybe, maybe not. Où sont les neiges d’antan?

Back home in the front yard, an oriole flashes in the high branches of the silver maple.

Day 9 Outdoors: In the Lee of the Farmhouse

Saturday, March 3, 1:15-2:00 p.m.

There is no marking the driveway today, except for a line of widely spaced and frail orange flags set out to guide the plow that hasn’t come. No plow today. Roads are not even plowed, owing to downed trees and power lines in the area. Power is out all over northwest Michigan.

It was, however, a relatively warm night and is, as yet, a relatively warm winter day. The snow is heavy and wet. While this is perfect for snowmen and snow forts, it’s dangerous in the load it creates on lines and many roofs. A metal roof, however, sheds snowload without a second thought. There is a low rumble as the load begins to move, then a whoosh as it slides to the edge, and finally a ground-shaking thud as it falls to earth, shaking old windows. On the ground today, then, along the east and west (back and front) sides of the house, an outdoor wall of extra insulation rises, a wall that only needed to be broken through in front of the doorway.

Everything outdoors is white today. Trees are all but engulfed in wind-driven snow, wet and clinging. Large objects such as the brush pile and a garden wagon full of gathered branches appear as mysterious, featureless mounds of white. With  foot to a foot and a half of heavy snow fallen overnight, weeds and grasses are almost completely buried, and a glistening, empty expanse stretches over the meadow behind the house until broken in the distance by the first, youngest cherry trees and, beyond them, the edge of the eastern woods.

Sounds (except when roof snowload is in motion) are few and subtle: a background moaning of wind in high branches, a closer percussive crackling as icy branches shift their weight in the light wind, and close up the sound counterpart of the visual glistening, a pervasive, bright, shimmering, tiny glass-shattering whisper, a brittle susurrus, as new snow crystals touch and blow across the tops of deep drifts.

Very little surface is not covered by snow, from the now-white popples in the grove to the sturdy black walnut and basswood trees between grove and house. Where the bark is exposed, as it is on sections of the basswood trunk, that surface appears darker than usual, by contrast with the adjacent snow-covered bark and because it, the exposed bark, is wet with snowmelt. 

From the north, perhaps somewhere in the creekside willows, a lone crow calls repeatedly and insistently before falling silent. A smaller bird nearby gives a single forlorn chirp. It is still snowing, and little creatures are mostly lying low today. 

Day 6 Outdoors: Winter Colors Near Farmhouse

Tuesday, February 7, 3:00-3:50 p.m.

Sunshine and no clouds, bright blue sky, but many other colors are to be seen, also, just a few steps from the front door of our old farmhouse. (An injured ankle keeps me from venturing farther afield.) Most striking are the bright yellow branches of the giant willows along the little no-name creek, vivid against the blue of the sky, and on the ground, red osiers (dogwood) along the creek, brilliant scarlet. Off to the north and south in the distance are cherry orchards, the southern orchard trees a silvery lavender, those to the north a rich, deep plum color.

(At this time of year, each orchard has its own color tone: there are apple trees over on Jelinek Road whose trunks and branches are intense orange-gold.)

Various greens are visible, beginning with that of grass. Not all the grass is brown, and some patches are greener than others. Along the walk, one sage plant is a dusky grey-green (the other, a purple sage, dark and almost colorless now in winter), while nearby rosemary, not winter-killed this unseasonably warm year, is a brighter, still-subtle green.

Iris leaves in the garden are tawny yellow-brown, tall grasses at the edge of the yard tawny gold, and dangling clusters of box-elder seeds a sun-kissed warm beige. One tiny down feather is caught on a twig of the little plum tree and flutters nervously in the breeze. On closer inspection it seems to be two small, partial, finely veined feathers, tips clipped off, barely held together by a small clot of flesh, perhaps the last remaining trace of a larger bird’s meal. The outer twigs and buds of the little plum tree are red-orange; those of the big silver maple brighter red, though not the showy scarlet of the osiers.

Many colors are the antithesis of ‘showy.’ Browns and greys come in a near-infinite number of variations, the greys shading into greens where microorganisms inhabit tree bark. The silver maple crowding the front of the farmhouse is an example of this subtlety. Pieces of outer bark, on a deeply ridged old trunk, curling away from the tree, are dark grey and bear numerous grey-green lichens; the revealed underbark is pinkish brown, appearing much younger.

The sun casts the shadow of the porch on the old house foundation and stripes the trunk of the tree with shadows of branches. More ground is bare (warm brown) than is snow-covered.

Full moon tonight.

Day 2 Outdoors: In Claudia's Woods

One old beech tree in the woods

Tuesday, January 10, 

1-2:15 p.m. 

Unseasonably warm weather returned and continues, with blue skies and near-balmy temperatures. The afternoon sun reaches into all parts of Claudia’s Woods, its low winter angle casting long shadows but also striking the leaf litter with warm light. The southeast corner of this small woods is bordered on two sides, south and east, by cherry orchard. At the south border is a wild apple tree, the ground beneath littered with windfall fruit partially eaten by wildlife. To the east, in space formerly occupied by a farm lane, is a large brush pile, surely sheltering rabbits. The woods rises uphill from the brush pile, and a just-visible logging road climbs up and wanders off through the woods.

Deep into the woods there are no birches or popples. Venerable beeches and maples (the latter somewhat smaller in circumference, perhaps because the largest have been timbered off) are the largest trees, and now, in winter, the space between trees seems strangely spacious. (In summer the space will be filled by leafy seedlings and saplings, wildflowers, vines and shrubs.) On the ground, a breeze whispers through the brittle, dessicated beech leaves. It sounds almost like small animals skittering through the leaves. Dry leaves still attached to branches tremble noiselessly, and the upper reaches of the trees move slowly, gracefully, in the wind, their degree of movement varying according to their height and size: the smaller maples’ whole trunks sway, while only the topmost crowns of the beeches are moved.

From the distance comes muffled highway noise. In the middle distance, closer but beyond the woods, crows call. A dull engine roar nearby interrupts the stillness. A tractor? No, there it is—an ATV with two riders. Along the south edge of the woods it goes before disappearing.

No birds show themselves, but once a while one is audible. The first to announce itself utters one short note, then repeats the same note and lets it fall in a glissando. Another bird has two distinct notes, the second a whole step below the first. A third’s voice is a trilling coo. (Beyond, the crows....)

The breeze falls still in the ground-covering leaf litter but continues to move at higher levels. There is a time delay between the air moving below and the treetops swaying above, different horizontal time zones.

On the edge of the woods along the former lane, canes of thimbleberry still bear dark green leaves. On the ground beneath the tall maples and beeches are bright green patches of moss, a few green ferns (splayed flat on the dry leaves), and hopeful spring beauty plants ready either to rush the season or lie low, whichever the weather may indicate in days ahead.

From the southwest comes a sudden, brief canine chorus. The yipping and howling sounds like coyotes, but the deep baying is more like a dog. When the voices fall silent, they do not start up and sing again.

Perhaps those voices agitated a pair of grey squirrels at the eastern edge of the woods, suddenly active and noisy. They climb, race, scold, chase. After the grey squirrels disappear, one small red squirrel begins to chatter and scold, nervously, anxiously, angrily. Up one tree, out on a branch, back to the other side of the tree (not realizing that his shadow still gives him away), down to the ground and up another tree he races, and so on and so on. Constant motion. Never still for two consecutive moments, the squirrel’s body is always a graceful curve, the tail a second curve. Two curves: that is a squirrel.

Shadows shift in the course of an hour. Overhead branches criss-cross in black lines against the blue of the sky, the effect a kind of visual cacaphony with no ordered pattern, but shadows of tree trunks do fall into a pattern, each parallel to the next, all stretching to the north and slightly east.