THE QUESTION

Carolina Wren

                                        The question before me, now that I

                                        am old, is not how to be dead,

                                        which I know from enough practice,

                                        but how to be alive, as these worn

                                        hills still tell, and some paintings 

                                        of Paul Cezanne, and this mere 

                                        singing wren, who thinks he's alive

                                        forever, this instant, and may be.

 Wendell Berry

Sabbath Poems 2001, VIII

SWALLOWS: REVELRIES OF INDECISION

Barn Swallows

Swallows are the aerial acrobats of the avian world. They soar, dive, twist, roll, bank, glide, and engage in almost every other kind of flight movement imaginable, with the possible exception of flying directly backwards. The second-to-second directional changes are so quick and unpredictable that I am inclined to agree with something poet Leonora Speyer alluded to in the poem at the end of this posting: Swallows are masters of indecision.

My favorite swallow is the barn swallow, known for its deeply forked tail, its steely blue back, its bright blue crown and face, and its cinnamon-colored forehead and throat. Whenever I have a chance to observe these magnificent birds in their daily revelries, it's always a pleasure, and that's precisely what happened yesterday morning.

While driving slowly down a country lane in northwest Anderson County, I came across a young barn swallow perched on a fence post at the edge of a pasture . . .

After watching the swallow for a few minutes, I realized that it was anxiously searching the sky for something, and I presumed it was for one of his parents to return with a tasty breakfast.

My presumption turned out to be correct; the young swallow soon spread its wings and opened its mouth widely, suggesting that the parent swallow was quickly approaching.

Bam! The adult suddenly appeared in my viewfinder and hit its target, the gaping mouth of its offspring.

After hovering for not more than a second, the adult vanished and continued to forage for insects in the skies above the pasture.

The now-fed young swallow turned and began waiting impatiently on the next morsel to be delivered by its parent. Immediately, however, it was joined by a sibling which had obviously figured out that it needed to share the fence post feeding station if it wanted to share the food deliveries.  As you can see, the first young swallow was not enthusiastic about sharing either its spot or its food with the intruding sibling.

The first young young swallow then placed one of the wings over the newcomer, and appeared to be fending off any competition as the parent swallow was returning with another round of food. Frustrated, the newcomer left the perch for a moment . . .

. . . but returned aggressively as soon as the parent returned with food.

All hell broke loose for a second, but the first young swallow ultimately prevailed and got the reward once again.  As you can see, however, its sibling remained frustrated and visibly perturbed.  Such is life, I suppose.  It seems to happen among all species. 

So much for my morning with barn swallows. I'll close with the lovely poem I referenced at the outset. Written by Leonora Speyer (1872 - 1956), the poem captures beautifully the energy and spirit of most swallows 

Swallows

by Leonora Speyer

They dip their wings in the sunset

They dash against the air

As if to break themselves upon its stillness:

In every moment, too swift to count,

Is a revelry of indecision,

A furtive delight in trees they do not desire

And in grasses that shall not know their weight.

They hover and lean toward the meadow

With little edged cries;

And then,

As if frightened at the earth's nearness,

They seek the high austerity of evening sky

And swirl into its depth.

OTHER EYES THAT DELIGHT IN BEAUTY

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail on Butterfly Bush

Thanks to fellow blogger John The Barman, who recently called my attention to a quote from Christina Rossetti's beautiful poem, "To What Purpose is this Waste."  It's a lovely passage, especially to lovers of birds and other wild creatures, so I will share it with you here: 

And other eyes than our's

Were made to look on flowers,

Eyes of small birds and insects small:

The deep sun-blushing rose

Round which the prickles close

Opens her bosom to them all.

The tiniest living thing

That soars on feathered wing,

Or crawls among the long grass out of sight,

Has just as good a right

To its appointed portion of delight

As any King.

MOVING THROUGH THE HERON'S DREAM

Great Blue Heron

In the poem below, Vermont poet T. Alan Broughton captures much of what I personally experience when I spend time observing a great blue heron fishing in shallow waters or standing in priestly solitude on the edge of a marsh.  When Broughton speaks of the "bird that stays with me," or the "heron's dream to share his sky and water," or the heron's evening flight "through the dying sun and out again," I know precisely what he means, for I, too, have been enchanted by herons for most of my life.

Great Blue Heron

By T. Alan Broughton

                         I drive past him each day in the swamp where he stands

                         on one leg, hunched as if dreaming of his own form

                         the surface reflects.  Often I nearly forget to turn left,

                         buy fish and wine, be home in time to cook and chill.

                         Today the bird stays with me, as if I am moving through

                         the heron's dream to share his sky or water — places

                         he will rise into on slow flapping wings or where

                         his long bill darts to catch unwary frogs.  I've seen

                         his slate blue feathers lift him as dangling legs

                         fold back, I've seen him fly through the dying sun

                         and out again, entering night, entering my own sleep.

                         I only know this bird by a name we've wrapped him in,

                         and when I stand on my porch, fish in the broiler,

                         wine glass sweating against my palm, glint of sailboats

                         tacking home on dusky water, I try to imagine him

                         slowly descending to his nest, wise as he was 

                         or ever will be, filling each moment with that moment's 

                         act or silence, and the evening folds itself around me.

From T. Alan Broughton's 

book of poetry, "A World Remembered"

A SIMPLE MEASURE OF HEALTH

Eastern Bluebird

Measure your health by your sympathy with morning and spring.  If there is no response in you to the awakening of nature — if the prospect of an early morning walk does not banish sleep, if the warble of the first bluebird does not thrill you — know that the morning and spring of your life are past.  Thus may you feel your pulse.

Henry David Thoreau

Journal: February 25, 1859

NATURE'S ASSURANCE

Grasshopper Sparrow

Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.  There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for spring.  There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature — the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.

Rachel Carson, Silent Spring 

HOW TO SEE DEER (AND PERHAPS OTHER THINGS)

Whitetail Deer

I was reminded once again this morning that one does not need to travel far to be transformed by the beauty of nature.  As I stepped through the back door of my home just after sunrise, I was immediately greeted by a young doe standing on the edge our yard, gorgeously framed by butterfly bushes, bee balm, and one of my treasured birdhouses.

Hardly a day goes by without my seeing five to fifteen deer on our property.  They graze and frolic in the pasture; they sleep on the soft ivy ground cover that borders a small stream; and they take special delight in laying waste to our vegetable garden and fruit trees.  

As I observed the doe this morning, however, I was not simply taking notice of another deer.  I was really trying to see the uniqueness of this particular deer in a very special, transitory moment of my life.  Without belaboring the point, I will just say that I agree with what Philip Booth wrote in his poem, "How to See Deer."  In short, we must learn to wait without waiting, to be careless of nothing, and, above all, to truly see what we think we are "seeing." 

HOW TO SEE DEER

By Philip Booth (1925 - 2007)

                                                Forget roadside crossings.
                                                Go nowhere with guns.
                                                Go elsewhere your own way,

                                                lonely and wanting. Or
                                                stay and be early:
                                                next to deep woods

                                                inhabit old orchards.
                                                All clearings promise.
                                                Sunrise is good,

                                                and fog before sun.
                                                Expect nothing always;
                                                find your luck slowly.

                                                Wait out the windfall.
                                                Take your good time
                                                to learn to read ferns;

                                                make like a turtle:
                                                downhill toward slow water.
                                                Instructed by heron,

                                                drink the pure silence.
                                                Be compassed by wind.
                                                If you quiver like aspen

                                                trust your quick nature:
                                                let your ear teach you
                                                which way to listen.

                                                You've come to assume 
                                                protective color; now 
                                                colors reform to

                                                new shapes in your eye.
                                                You've learned by now
                                                to wait without waiting;

                                                as if it were dusk
                                                look into light falling:
                                                in deep relief

                                                things even out. Be
                                                careless of nothing. See
                                                what you see.