Audubon's "Violet Green Swallow"

John James Audubon's rendition of my favorite summertime swallow, the Violet Green. They are almost constant companions at the lake and over meadows and hayfields. Audubon plate published 1840 to 1844.

"Mandarin Ducks and Snow-Covered Reeds" by Paula Bohince

"Mandarin Ducks in Snow" Woodblock Print, Ohara Koson, 1935

When one dives, separate from her mate,

death is mere illusion.

She peers through water, assuring this.

When the crippled reeds rehabilitate, begin

their constant arc toward spring,

pain seems impossible. So distance. So change-

of-heart. From above or beneath, how

a body will twist, intuiting fear

and replacing it with here-ness, exhibit of

faithfulness. Wordlessly saying, Be not afraid,

Beloved, for the present exalts us!

Paula Bohince is the author of The Children and Incident at the Edge of Bayonet Woods. She lives in Pennsylvania.

The Veil of May" by W.S. Merwin

"Spring Trees" by Jim Cox

No more than a week and the leaves

have all come out on the ash trees

now they are more than half open

on the ancient walnuts standing

alone in the field reaching up

through the mute amazement of age

they have uncurled on the oaks from

hands small as the eyelids of birds

and the morning light shines through them

and waits while the hawthorn gleams white

against the green in the shadow

in a moment the river has

disappeared down in the valley

the curve of sky gliding slowly

from before not seeming to move

it will not be seen again now

a while from this place on the ridge

but over it the summer will

flow and not seem to be moving

"The Veil of May" by W.S. Merwin from Collected Poems. © Library of America, 2013. 

"Wild Geese Alighting on a Lake" by Anne Porter

"In For the Evening" by Peter Mathios

I watched them

As they neared the lake

They wheeled

In a wide arc

With beating wings

And then

They put their wings to sleep

And glided downward in a drift

Of pure abandonment

Until they touched

The surface of the lake

Composed their wings

And settled

On the rippling water

As though it were a nest.

"Wild Geese Alighting on a Lake" by Anne Porter from Living Things. © Zoland Books, 2006. 

"Highway 12, Just East of Paradise, Idaho" by Robert Wrigley

"The Dead Doe" by Gustave Courbet, 1857

The doe, at a dead run, was dead

the instant the truck hit her:

In the headlights I saw her tongue

extend and her eyes go shocked and vacant,

Launched at a sudden right angle-say

from twenty miles per hour south to fifty

miles per hour east-she skated

many yards on the slightest toe-edge tips

of her dainty deer hooves, then fell

slowly, inside the speed of her new trajectory,

not pole-axed but stunned, away

from me and the truck’s decelerating pitch.

She skidded along the right lane’s

fog line true as a cue ball,

until her neck caught a sign post

that spun her across both lanes and out of sight

beyond the edge. For which, I admit, I was grateful,

the road there being dark, narrow, and shoulderless,

and home, with its lights, not far away.

"Highway 12, Just East of Paradise, Idaho" by Robert Wrigley,

from Earthly Meditations: New and Selected Poems. © Penguin, 2010. 

"Geese" by Faith Shearin

"On Winter Winds" by Morten E. Solberg

A gaggle of geese return to our street each winter

while migrating from one place to another.

They arrive in January, around my husband’s birthday,

and I am surprised to find them behind our house,

honking like cab drivers in traffic. Most leave with

babies but one pair can’t manage to have any;

I’ve watched them sit for years on a wet nest of death,

warming unhappiness. It is only when the other

geese swim past them, proudly displaying

a line of live chicks, that they realize they have

failed again, their eggs silent beneath the love

of their feathers. My neighbors and I don’t agree

on much but we all watch these geese from our

windows, with binoculars sometimes, our breakfast

growing cold on the table. We wish the unsuccessful

ones would have a season of luck, their eggs healthy

and well placed, for each of us has known the pleasure

of spring, the way it feels for something closed

to open: the soft, heavenly weather of arrival.

"Geese" by Faith Shearin from Moving the Piano. © Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2011.

The Artist and the Fly Fisher

Very nice. Makes me want to be an artist.

Morning After the First Snow

Morning After the First Snow, Okuyama Gihachiro, 1950's

From The Wood Between

"Wild Turkeys" by Lawrence Kessenich

"Wild Turkey Cock, Hen, and Young" by John James Audubon, 1826

I watch them from my office window

pecking at pebbles on the blacktop,

pink heads, iridescent feathers,

stick legs moving with surprising grace.

Living in the woods behind the office

park, they tolerate our diurnal presence,

unmoved by creatures four times their size

invading in steel and glass.

Ben Franklin preferred them for our national

symbol, and they act as if they deserve no less.

How different would our nation be if we

had chosen these gentle grazers—who

nonetheless defend their nests—over

a bird who scours the earth for prey?

American though they are, these turkeys have

no allegiance. They only need a patch of earth

to scratch, a place to raise their pink young. And,

come to think of it, do any of us need more?

"Wild Turkeys" by Lawrence Kessenich from Before Whose Glory. © Future Cycle Press, 2013. 

"September, 1918" by Amy Lowell

"Autumn Landscape With Fox," 1918, by Bruno Liljefors

This afternoon was the color of water falling through sunlight;

The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;

The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,

And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.

Under a tree in the park,

Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,

Were carefully gathering red berries

To put in a pasteboard box.

Some day there will be no war,

Then I shall take out this afternoon

And turn it in my fingers,

And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,

And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.

Today I can only gather it

And put it into my lunch box,

For I have time for nothing

But the endeavor to balance myself

Upon a broken world.

"September, 1918" by Amy Lowell, from The complete Poetical Works of Amy Lowell. © 1955, Houghton Mifflin Company. © renewed 1983, Houghton Mifflin Company, Brinton P. Roberts, and G. D'Andelot, Esquire.

"Mindful" by Mary Oliver

"Meadow Marsh 3" by Dannielle Mick

Everyday
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for — 
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world — 
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant — 
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these — 
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

"Mindful" by Mary Oliver from Why I Wake Early. © Beacon Press, 2005. 

"Kinship" by Ursula K. Le Guin

Hoshi Joichi

Very slowly burning, the big forest tree
stands in the slight hollow of the snow
melted around it by the mild, long
heat of its being and its will to be
root, trunk, branch, leaf, and know
earth dark, sun light, wind touch, bird song.

Rootless and restless and warmblooded, we
blaze in the flare that blinds us to that slow,
tall, fraternal fire of life as strong
now as in the seedling two centuries ago.

A Blessing

"Blessing of the Polar Bears" by Chholing Taha, Cree

"The Kingfisher" by W.H. Davies

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, 

And left thee all her lovely hues; 

And, as her mother's name was Tears, 

So runs it in my blood to choose 

For haunts the lonely pools, and keep 

In company with trees that weep. 

Go you and, with such glorious hues, 

Live with proud peacocks in green parks; 

On lawns as smooth as shining glass, 

Let every feather show its marks; 

Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings 

Before the windows of proud kings. 

Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; 

Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; 

I also love a quiet place 

That's green, away from all mankind; 

A lonely pool, and let a tree 

Sigh with her bosom over me.

The Wood Between

These are from The Wood Between, my current favorite site for when I want to enter a dream state. There is now a permanent link in the blog list in the right margin.

Andrew Wyeth -- Moon Madness, 1982

Stag and Snow -- Catherine Hyde

A New Year's Gift

Here are some samples from a wonderful blog for those who enjoy "nature-themed art and illustration." You can find it HERE.

Andrew Davidson -- Norwegian Christmas

Matazo Kayama

Eyvind Earle

Tyla (Finnish Winter Landscape) by Tapio Pellervo Haili (1973)

Dreamtime: Philip R. Goodwin

The cold, dark months are a good time to dream of long, warm days, open country, and adventure. These paintings by early 20th century painter and illustrator Philip R. Goodwin certainly get me going. So dream on....