Well instead of a Yule Log, I give you Yule twigs. (I was burning some of the dead-fall from last week's ice storm.) I hope your holiday is merry and bright. Hang up your stockings, for Santa Claus comes tonight.
Showing posts with label night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label night. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas
Well instead of a Yule Log, I give you Yule twigs. (I was burning some of the dead-fall from last week's ice storm.) I hope your holiday is merry and bright. Hang up your stockings, for Santa Claus comes tonight.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Lonesome Whippoorwill
Whippoorwill
I wake to the sound
Whippoorwill
Achingly lonely
Whippoorwill
Calling at midnight
Whippoorwill
I join his vigil
Whippoorwill
But none comes, to be
Whippoorwill
With him or with me
Whippoorwill
It is too soon.
Whippoorwill
Whippoorwill
Whippoorwill
I wake to the sound
Whippoorwill
Achingly lonely
Whippoorwill
Calling at midnight
Whippoorwill
I join his vigil
Whippoorwill
But none comes, to be
Whippoorwill
With him or with me
Whippoorwill
It is too soon.
Whippoorwill
Whippoorwill
Whippoorwill
Saturday, January 19, 2008
A Little Night Magic
Eight pairs of eyes watched as the sky blushed and the sun slunk further toward the horizon. Eight pairs of binoculars scanned every movement of the dozen or so Harriers that coursed back and forth over the marsh. Seeking. Hoping. Flocks of geese arrowed their way home for the night unnoticed. The wind blew damp and cold across the water. The excitement was palatable.
The birders had arrived singly and in pairs to witness the magical transition of day to night. They talked quietly among themselves. One man was there for the first time this year. Another and his wife were visiting from England. One woman had been there before and knew what to expect. We were winding up a fruitful day of birding and were not yet ready to go home.
The sun finally sunk behind the hill and a different bird appeared far out over the water. They all strained to make out the bird in the gloaming. Was it a Harrier? Hmmm, maybe not. Does it have a white rump? Yes? No? No! Could it be?
Ala Ka Zam! As if by magic the Harriers disappeared and were replaced by Short-Eared Owls. First there was one far in the distance. Then several others were scrutinized for field marks. Finally one flew above the dark hills into the fading glow of the sunset. The bird’s silhouette and its barking call clinched the ID. A collective sigh mingled with the clouds of breath.
The birders stayed in the dropping temperatures stomping their feet until it was too dark to see. The barking stopped and the birds flew off silently now into the full dark to hunt for their daily mouse. The birders slowly got into their cars to go home for their own evening meal. The last to leave, we relinquished the nighttime marsh to the denizens of the dark.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Bedtime
“Shhhh! Listen…. Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“Listen.”
“I hear crickets.”
“No…more than that.”
“I hear a horse”
“Yes, that. But it’s not a horse.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s night time.”
“So? Why can’t it be a horse?”
“Where are there any horses near here?”
“There are horses by Brian's house.”
“That is 6 miles from here.”
“Is that too far?”
“Yes.”
“So. What it is?”
“A bird.”
“A bird?”
“Yes.”
“Is it the Whip bird?”
“Good guess, but not this time.”
“That is the only nighttime bird I know.”
“You know more than that.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. What is a night time bird that whinnys?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is the most common night time bird?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is Harry Potter’s bird?”
An Owl?”
“Yes.”
“That is an owl?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t owls supposed to hoot?”
“Not all owls hoot. Some whinny.”
“Mommmmmy.”
“Really. It’s a Screech Owl.”
“Shouldn’t it Screech?”
“I don’t know why they call it that.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I have heard them before. When I lived on the farm.”
“Oh, before me.”
“Yes, honey. Before you.”
"Mommy, can I have an owl?
"No, we are muggles, we don't keep owls."
“Screech Owl, Screech Owl, Screeech Owwwwl Screcchh.…..”
Sheila kissed Teddy’s head. She picked up the latest Harry Potter from the nightstand and tiptoed out the door. She paused in the hallway to listen to the tremolo of the owl and made a mental note to buy him a bird book for his birthday. He would soon be 10. Maybe it was time for a big boy present.
“Hear what?”
“Listen.”
“I hear crickets.”
“No…more than that.”
“I hear a horse”
“Yes, that. But it’s not a horse.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s night time.”
“So? Why can’t it be a horse?”
“Where are there any horses near here?”
“There are horses by Brian's house.”
“That is 6 miles from here.”
“Is that too far?”
“Yes.”
“So. What it is?”
“A bird.”
“A bird?”
“Yes.”
“Is it the Whip bird?”
“Good guess, but not this time.”
“That is the only nighttime bird I know.”
“You know more than that.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. What is a night time bird that whinnys?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is the most common night time bird?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is Harry Potter’s bird?”
An Owl?”
“Yes.”
“That is an owl?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t owls supposed to hoot?”
“Not all owls hoot. Some whinny.”
“Mommmmmy.”
“Really. It’s a Screech Owl.”
“Shouldn’t it Screech?”
“I don’t know why they call it that.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I have heard them before. When I lived on the farm.”
“Oh, before me.”
“Yes, honey. Before you.”
"Mommy, can I have an owl?
"No, we are muggles, we don't keep owls."
“Screech Owl, Screech Owl, Screeech Owwwwl Screcchh.…..”
Sheila kissed Teddy’s head. She picked up the latest Harry Potter from the nightstand and tiptoed out the door. She paused in the hallway to listen to the tremolo of the owl and made a mental note to buy him a bird book for his birthday. He would soon be 10. Maybe it was time for a big boy present.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The sounds of summer
Lawns mowers on a Saturday mornings.
Crickets in the cool dark nights.
Tree frogs signing for all they are worth.
Come August it will be the katydids shrieking through the night.
The splashing of the neighbor kid in the pool.
Firecrackers
The plong, plong of a basketball against blacktop
The tick of a sprinkler
The dawn chorus
For me, the ultimate sound of summer will always be the insistent call of the Whippoorwill. I await the first call in the spring. Never knowing if they will come back to my mountain or may go elsewhere. After I hear the first one, sometimes, distantly at first, then I know that they made it safely back from their winter sojourn. They usually arrive by mid-May. This year they were late.
They were quite loud last night on the mountain. I first heard it while I was in the basement. I looked up and paused….listening. It was only the “will” part. I came upstairs and opened the back door. It seemed to be coming from the front of the house. I walked through the foyer and opened the front door and the sound exploded into the house. It was somewhere in the trees across the street. Really close. I quietly opened the door and went out to sit on the front steps. Any movement I made and the bird stopped calling. Maybe it was in the new damp mulch in the flower bed by the street....
I sat like a statue and listened to the calling for a long time. Then I heard other answering calls coming from the woods. I counted 4 birds. My bird was suddenly silent -- gone. I never saw it fly.
I came back into the house covered with mosquito bites but full of the sound and happy, ready for bed.
I surfaced from sleep to the call of the Whippoorwill at 4:15a. He was settling in after a full night of bug hunting. I rolled over to join him for another 40 winks, before I started my day.
"Háwê." Hekaya'tí háwê. ökwënöhtö' ne' N-awëníyu' huwênö' kayásöh ukëistö wíyú. Kanyu' hatháha' ne' wai nê shô hutênút. Kakwékö nae ne yöëtsate' ne'hu wai nê shô N-awëníyu' huënö'. Ne' n-áyönishe't kës ëötënúta'k ne' khu ëyöëtsaték, ne' khu nê hëkâhkwë'sék, ne' khu kës ne kê' ne kwë'kúnyë' ëwötwënôta'k. Nêkê wênishæte' ne' nae n-utyênu'kta'ö he työhe'.
"He said." To put it simply, he said. We know that the voice of God is abundantly beautiful. His speech is only song. The whole world is nothing but the song of God. As long as his song (orenda) lasts, the earth will continue, the sun will always set, and the whippoorwill's voice will be heard. Today is the day of creation.
Genesis 1:27 translated from King James into Mingo by Maris Pierce 1835.
Crickets in the cool dark nights.
Tree frogs signing for all they are worth.
Come August it will be the katydids shrieking through the night.
The splashing of the neighbor kid in the pool.
Firecrackers
The plong, plong of a basketball against blacktop
The tick of a sprinkler
The dawn chorus
For me, the ultimate sound of summer will always be the insistent call of the Whippoorwill. I await the first call in the spring. Never knowing if they will come back to my mountain or may go elsewhere. After I hear the first one, sometimes, distantly at first, then I know that they made it safely back from their winter sojourn. They usually arrive by mid-May. This year they were late.
They were quite loud last night on the mountain. I first heard it while I was in the basement. I looked up and paused….listening. It was only the “will” part. I came upstairs and opened the back door. It seemed to be coming from the front of the house. I walked through the foyer and opened the front door and the sound exploded into the house. It was somewhere in the trees across the street. Really close. I quietly opened the door and went out to sit on the front steps. Any movement I made and the bird stopped calling. Maybe it was in the new damp mulch in the flower bed by the street....
I sat like a statue and listened to the calling for a long time. Then I heard other answering calls coming from the woods. I counted 4 birds. My bird was suddenly silent -- gone. I never saw it fly.
I came back into the house covered with mosquito bites but full of the sound and happy, ready for bed.
I surfaced from sleep to the call of the Whippoorwill at 4:15a. He was settling in after a full night of bug hunting. I rolled over to join him for another 40 winks, before I started my day.
"Háwê." Hekaya'tí háwê. ökwënöhtö' ne' N-awëníyu' huwênö' kayásöh ukëistö wíyú. Kanyu' hatháha' ne' wai nê shô hutênút. Kakwékö nae ne yöëtsate' ne'hu wai nê shô N-awëníyu' huënö'. Ne' n-áyönishe't kës ëötënúta'k ne' khu ëyöëtsaték, ne' khu nê hëkâhkwë'sék, ne' khu kës ne kê' ne kwë'kúnyë' ëwötwënôta'k. Nêkê wênishæte' ne' nae n-utyênu'kta'ö he työhe'.
"He said." To put it simply, he said. We know that the voice of God is abundantly beautiful. His speech is only song. The whole world is nothing but the song of God. As long as his song (orenda) lasts, the earth will continue, the sun will always set, and the whippoorwill's voice will be heard. Today is the day of creation.
Genesis 1:27 translated from King James into Mingo by Maris Pierce 1835.
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