Of the various poems we read for this week’s class, each poet—Rogers, Wright, Merwin, Guevara, Clifton, St. Germain and Kutchins—approached writing nature poems in their own unique way:
1. Pattiann Rogers, in “The Hummingbird: A Seduction,” used nature to tackle the most cliché topic for poetry: love. Rogers presents love in a fresh way by comparing seduction of a hummingbird to human seduction. Rather than express the love a woman feels for a man in terms of human desire, in the third stanza she describes physical intimacy as a mid-air dance performed by hummingbirds: “And if I saw your sweeping and sucking/Performance of swirling egg and semen in the air/The weaving, twisting vision of red petal/And nectar and soaring rump, the rush of your wing/In its grand confusion of arcing and splitting/Created completely out of nothing just for me…”
2. Overall, James Wright writes about the relationship between man and nature and the joy animals, plants and insects bring to humans. His characters express their pleasure during encounters with horses, milkweed and crickets and they caress a horse, release seeds from milkweed pods, and listen to the clear sounds of crickets.
3. W.S. Merwin takes a much different approach in that he includes more of an environmental theme. In “The Last One” he addresses the effect logging has on tree populations and nature’s stubbornness to persevere and fight back. Although he does not name his main subjects, man and tree, Merwin includes details such as “leaves,” “cutting,” “shadow” and “machines” to help the reader understand the poem. One characteristic that could have caused great confusion, however, is Merwin’s repetitive use of “they” which refers to both man and tree. Yet because of the specific details he attaches to each “they,” Merwin eliminates confusion. For instance, in the first stanza, “They with two leaves they whom the birds despise,” the reader knows that “they” pertains to trees because of the words “leaves” and “birds.” In the second stanza, “Well they cut everything because why not,” “they” refers to humans because humans have the ability to cut trees. Overall, Merwin creates ambiguity by refusing to name his subjects, but this choice makes the poem stronger because he blurs the line between man and tree as if to say there is no distinction between mankind and the natural world, and thus trees are as important as humans.
4. Like Merwin, Maurice Guevara does not always directly name his subject, vampire bats. Instead, he requires the reader to rely on details such as “blood vomit,” “upside down,” and “fly.” But Guevera does one thing that Merwin does not; he names the bats in the second stanza, “a craziness the bats fly from.”
5. Whereas the previous poets focused on the relationship between humans and animals, Lucille Clifton incorporates dialect into her poem, “defending my tongue,” to present a strong sense of place. She combines language with landscape descriptions in a way that her speaker identifies home with language.
6. Sheryl St. Germain often includes nature to explore human emotions such as desire and pain. Many of the poems in the selection we read use the sun, jungle, deer and other parts of nature to describe the speaker’s relationships, wants and needs.
7. The last author I want to mention is Laurie Kutchins who, in my opinion, approaches nature writing in the most appealing way. Like the other poets, she writes about the relationship between humans and nature. However, she avoids writing about love and emotions. Instead, in her poem, “Walk in Tick Season,” she focuses on one of the most basic connections a person can have with the natural world: a tick making contact with a human. Obviously, not a very pleasing topic. If someone were to ask me to read a poem about a tick crawling on human skin, I would turn down the offer because who wants to read about ticks. Yet, Kutchins is able to take a disgusting incident and make it not only interesting but beautiful.
One way in which Kutchins transforms a tick feasting on human blood into an act of beauty is to avoid naming the tick. With the exception of the first line, she does not call the tick a tick but rather “she.” As a result, she lessens the effect the word “tick” has on the reader allowing her audience to identify with a female character. The author also maintains a metaphor of the human body as a landscape full of tunnels (trousers), ravines (ears) and shaded areas (underarms), thus creating an image of a stunning but strange landscape which seems to be from another world. By describing the tick’s presence on flesh as a female taking a long stroll, Kutchins enables the reader to forget about the tick. Because of this, I am able to concentrate on the relationship between an individual and nature. And in this poem, that relationship is based on the idea that man can affect nature in a positive way by unintentionally helping even the smallest creature survive.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Place 7: Time for a swim
11:15 a.m. Friday, Oct. 23
The mallards are here again at Chatham pond: one male, one female. They paddle side by side, ducking their heads into the water in search of food among vibrant red, orange, yellow and green leaves scattered across the pond’s surface. Standing beneath the maple tree, I am close enough to the pair—eight feet—that I can see their orange webbed feet propelling them through the water swiftly and smoothly. Their movement reminds me of my own childhood, learning to dog-paddle in a small inland Michigan lake, my hands directly beneath my body pedaling frantically as my mother watched with her hawk’s eye. My hands made ungainly flippers lacking proper form and ability. Ducks are more graceful.
When the mallards reach the grassy edge, they dig their beaks roughly into damp soil intermixed with moss and leaf bits. I expect they search for bugs, lunchtime. After a moment, they give up and rinse their faces in the water. The male continues his swim whereas the female waddles out onto the grass to preen her feathers properly, scraping her beak across her back. Ducks never seem to stop grooming themselves except when in need of a swim, nap or food. Despite this, I still think that humans are far vainer.
I near the female. She ignores me completely as if she couldn’t care less about my presence. Soon, the male returns to the edge but remains in the water. He dips his head beneath the surface again, stretching his neck. When he emerges, water droplets sparkle on his shimmery green head trickling down his neck. The beads must tickle because he suddenly raises one webbed foot and scratches the area behind his eyes as a dog would scratch behind an ear. A bizarre sight, I must say, to watch a duck move in this way. I never realized ducks were so flexible, and it would have never occurred to me that they would use their feet in such a way—although it makes perfect sense. How else could they scratch their heads? (They also shake their tail feathers as a dog would shake his own tail after a bath or swim. Perhaps in another life, ducks and dogs were related.)
The ducks are not alone. They have company. More goldfish have miraculously appeared, which means that Chatham University must have restocked the pond since my last visit one week ago. Now there must be at least 100 medium-sized fish. They have split themselves into two sizeable schools: one in the middle of the pond and a second toward the shallow end furthest from the fountain. They look bored. None have moved save for a slight flapping of fins in order to stay in one place. I can’t imagine life would be very interesting living in a pond, trapped, unable to swim away to experience other creeks or lakes or even another pond. I would much rather lead the life of a duck, able to swim wherever I wish and fly away to make new friends and enjoy vast views of landscapes.
Next week I’ll have to remember my camera so I can take a picture of my feathery friends. I hope they’re still there.
The mallards are here again at Chatham pond: one male, one female. They paddle side by side, ducking their heads into the water in search of food among vibrant red, orange, yellow and green leaves scattered across the pond’s surface. Standing beneath the maple tree, I am close enough to the pair—eight feet—that I can see their orange webbed feet propelling them through the water swiftly and smoothly. Their movement reminds me of my own childhood, learning to dog-paddle in a small inland Michigan lake, my hands directly beneath my body pedaling frantically as my mother watched with her hawk’s eye. My hands made ungainly flippers lacking proper form and ability. Ducks are more graceful.
When the mallards reach the grassy edge, they dig their beaks roughly into damp soil intermixed with moss and leaf bits. I expect they search for bugs, lunchtime. After a moment, they give up and rinse their faces in the water. The male continues his swim whereas the female waddles out onto the grass to preen her feathers properly, scraping her beak across her back. Ducks never seem to stop grooming themselves except when in need of a swim, nap or food. Despite this, I still think that humans are far vainer.
I near the female. She ignores me completely as if she couldn’t care less about my presence. Soon, the male returns to the edge but remains in the water. He dips his head beneath the surface again, stretching his neck. When he emerges, water droplets sparkle on his shimmery green head trickling down his neck. The beads must tickle because he suddenly raises one webbed foot and scratches the area behind his eyes as a dog would scratch behind an ear. A bizarre sight, I must say, to watch a duck move in this way. I never realized ducks were so flexible, and it would have never occurred to me that they would use their feet in such a way—although it makes perfect sense. How else could they scratch their heads? (They also shake their tail feathers as a dog would shake his own tail after a bath or swim. Perhaps in another life, ducks and dogs were related.)
The ducks are not alone. They have company. More goldfish have miraculously appeared, which means that Chatham University must have restocked the pond since my last visit one week ago. Now there must be at least 100 medium-sized fish. They have split themselves into two sizeable schools: one in the middle of the pond and a second toward the shallow end furthest from the fountain. They look bored. None have moved save for a slight flapping of fins in order to stay in one place. I can’t imagine life would be very interesting living in a pond, trapped, unable to swim away to experience other creeks or lakes or even another pond. I would much rather lead the life of a duck, able to swim wherever I wish and fly away to make new friends and enjoy vast views of landscapes.
Next week I’ll have to remember my camera so I can take a picture of my feathery friends. I hope they’re still there.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Response 6: Oliver's Simple Approach to Nature
Once in a while, I come across a poet who heightens my appreciation for poetry. Unless required, I generally do not read poetry and the poems I do take pleasure in are those that have a clear message, fluid language and comfortable tone. Mary Oliver is one of the few poets I’ve enjoyed reading because her work embodies some of the traits I prefer; that same clarity and fluidity as well as simple language and passion. Her style reflects simplicity. I certainly wouldn’t describe her writing as experimental, but she is not afraid to change the organization of her poems from prose to structurally repetitive stanzas to loosely structured stanzas to even a single stanza. As a result, her poems do not become predictable in terms of organization. However, what I do expect from Oliver regularly—almost to the point of predictability—is to read about the natural world.
When writing about nature, one tendency Oliver has is to personify a plant such as sunflowers in “The Sunflowers,” goldenrod in “Old Goldenrod at Field’s Edge,” and trees in “Black Oaks.” Whenever she describes plants as having faces, hair or feelings such as exhaustion, it causes the reader, me, to identify with the plant. Thus, I care more about this specific tree or flower, about what happens to it and about how its presence affects myself and others. I think Oliver intended for the reader to feel more compassion for living things after reader her poems. Yet, I believe that she also uses nature to address deeper issues. For instance, in “The Bleeding-heart,” Oliver wrote about a woman’s longing to be more like her grandmother who loved the simple things in life and was therefore happy. Oliver’s decision to begin her poem by focusing on a long-lived bleeding-heart plant seems appropriate because the plant’s name alone draws attention to a heart bleeding, yearning for something. In the case of this poem, the speaker yearns for the same pleasure and love of life her grandmother experienced.
Although I enjoyed reading a great many of Oliver’s poems, “The Bleeding-heart” was one which spoke to me the most. Rather than simply write about nature in a way that causes the reader to appreciate a certain plant, she connected a specific flower perfectly with a personal story. I sense a greater human presence in “The Bleeding-heart” than I did in “The Sunflowers” or “Black Oaks.” Also, she connects herself to the reader by posing questions or thoughts to her audience such as, “Don’t you think that deserves a little thought?” and “Most things that are important, have you noticed, lack a certain neatness.” Because Oliver links nature to herself and to the reader, I felt more included in her work. Overall, she continually practices her ability to draw the reader into poems by making them accessible in terms of their content and theme as well as simple language.
In response to Oliver’s style, I wrote a short lyric paragraph based on lilies, more specifically blackberry lilies:
Unexpected snowfall creates an even surface of white fluff coating chrysanthemums, overgrown asparagus and acorn squash. Bright greens, oranges and reds poke their colors through the whiteness. But it’s the blackberry lilies that draw my attention. Their black, berry-shaped seed clusters make a stark contrast to pure white snowflakes. I pick them; their endurance inspires me to preserve their hardy stems. For months a blackberry bouquet rests in a waterless vase on my countertop, drying gradually until stems become so brittle and delicate that I dare not blow the dust gathered on shriveled brown petals. But their seeds have not changed, deeply black as ever, and I store them safely until the next fall when I shall harvest more
When writing about nature, one tendency Oliver has is to personify a plant such as sunflowers in “The Sunflowers,” goldenrod in “Old Goldenrod at Field’s Edge,” and trees in “Black Oaks.” Whenever she describes plants as having faces, hair or feelings such as exhaustion, it causes the reader, me, to identify with the plant. Thus, I care more about this specific tree or flower, about what happens to it and about how its presence affects myself and others. I think Oliver intended for the reader to feel more compassion for living things after reader her poems. Yet, I believe that she also uses nature to address deeper issues. For instance, in “The Bleeding-heart,” Oliver wrote about a woman’s longing to be more like her grandmother who loved the simple things in life and was therefore happy. Oliver’s decision to begin her poem by focusing on a long-lived bleeding-heart plant seems appropriate because the plant’s name alone draws attention to a heart bleeding, yearning for something. In the case of this poem, the speaker yearns for the same pleasure and love of life her grandmother experienced.
Although I enjoyed reading a great many of Oliver’s poems, “The Bleeding-heart” was one which spoke to me the most. Rather than simply write about nature in a way that causes the reader to appreciate a certain plant, she connected a specific flower perfectly with a personal story. I sense a greater human presence in “The Bleeding-heart” than I did in “The Sunflowers” or “Black Oaks.” Also, she connects herself to the reader by posing questions or thoughts to her audience such as, “Don’t you think that deserves a little thought?” and “Most things that are important, have you noticed, lack a certain neatness.” Because Oliver links nature to herself and to the reader, I felt more included in her work. Overall, she continually practices her ability to draw the reader into poems by making them accessible in terms of their content and theme as well as simple language.
In response to Oliver’s style, I wrote a short lyric paragraph based on lilies, more specifically blackberry lilies:
Unexpected snowfall creates an even surface of white fluff coating chrysanthemums, overgrown asparagus and acorn squash. Bright greens, oranges and reds poke their colors through the whiteness. But it’s the blackberry lilies that draw my attention. Their black, berry-shaped seed clusters make a stark contrast to pure white snowflakes. I pick them; their endurance inspires me to preserve their hardy stems. For months a blackberry bouquet rests in a waterless vase on my countertop, drying gradually until stems become so brittle and delicate that I dare not blow the dust gathered on shriveled brown petals. But their seeds have not changed, deeply black as ever, and I store them safely until the next fall when I shall harvest more
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Place 6: Visitors
11:30 a.m. Saturday, Oct. 17
Two happy sights awaited me at the pond today. The first was the water level, which reached its highest point yet thanks to recent rain. Reaching all the way up to the grass/moss line, the water is now several feet deep. I estimate four feet in the middle. As a result, the fountain has righted itself and no longer spews water from an awkward forty-five degree angle.
No longer murky brown, the pond is a dull blue-green and relatively clear. I can see nearly to the bottom of the pond. Amazingly, deep down swim large goldfish. A quick count suggests that at least seventeen goldfish the length of my hand if not longer live in the pond.
The second surprise is four mallard ducks, two males and two females, taking a brisk swim and walk. It’s very easy to tell the difference between males and females. Males have bright shimmery green heads; grey, white and black feathers on their bodies; and yellow beaks. Females, however, are covered from head to tail in brown feathers and have dull orange beaks. The most vibrant colors on a female can be found on the feathers beneath their wings which are bright blue or purple. Depending on the angle, a mallard’s feathers shimmer and almost appear to change color depending on the light. Sometimes, purple feathers appear black.
It’s been a long time since I have seen a duck, ever since I moved to Pittsburgh one year ago. And I realize that I’ve missed them. They have such strange quirks. For instance, the two male-female pairs at the pond stick side by side in the same way that human couples stay together. The first pair to my left spends their time bobbing in the water, motionless except for an occasional twisting of their heads to tuck beaks deep into feathers covering their backs. The female eyes me, unblinking.
The second pair to my right I have taken to calling the vain pair. Since I arrived, they have preened their feathers—particularly the male who scrapes his beak against his chest, ruffling the feathers. Afterward, he tends to his wings, lifting them slightly to poke his beak beneath. As his grand finale, he shakes his tail like a dog shaking about after a long swim, entire body involved. Soon, the vain female stops preening and stands quietly on the pond’s edge and tucks her beak into her back feathers. After another minute, the male joins her. It’s not as if she’s paying him much attention anyway. But his break doesn’t last long and he begins primping once again putting on a show of fluffing and strutting his stuff. Ducks are silly creatures.
Slowly, I tread softly toward the ducks. The first female bobbing in the water continues to watch me with the black of her eye, whereas the vain female and the males couldn’t care less. Nevertheless, I stop about six feet away and kneel. I wish I had a camera, but it’s best that I haven’t brought one with me. Cameras tend to distract me from what I am actually observing. Rather than pay attention to nature, when holding a camera I focus more on the lens in front of my eye and my desire to take a top-notch picture to show off to friends and family. I find that I observe nature best without a barrier.
After another minute of kneeling, I stand up and walk away. I would rather not disturb their morning naps.
Two happy sights awaited me at the pond today. The first was the water level, which reached its highest point yet thanks to recent rain. Reaching all the way up to the grass/moss line, the water is now several feet deep. I estimate four feet in the middle. As a result, the fountain has righted itself and no longer spews water from an awkward forty-five degree angle.
No longer murky brown, the pond is a dull blue-green and relatively clear. I can see nearly to the bottom of the pond. Amazingly, deep down swim large goldfish. A quick count suggests that at least seventeen goldfish the length of my hand if not longer live in the pond.
The second surprise is four mallard ducks, two males and two females, taking a brisk swim and walk. It’s very easy to tell the difference between males and females. Males have bright shimmery green heads; grey, white and black feathers on their bodies; and yellow beaks. Females, however, are covered from head to tail in brown feathers and have dull orange beaks. The most vibrant colors on a female can be found on the feathers beneath their wings which are bright blue or purple. Depending on the angle, a mallard’s feathers shimmer and almost appear to change color depending on the light. Sometimes, purple feathers appear black.
It’s been a long time since I have seen a duck, ever since I moved to Pittsburgh one year ago. And I realize that I’ve missed them. They have such strange quirks. For instance, the two male-female pairs at the pond stick side by side in the same way that human couples stay together. The first pair to my left spends their time bobbing in the water, motionless except for an occasional twisting of their heads to tuck beaks deep into feathers covering their backs. The female eyes me, unblinking.
The second pair to my right I have taken to calling the vain pair. Since I arrived, they have preened their feathers—particularly the male who scrapes his beak against his chest, ruffling the feathers. Afterward, he tends to his wings, lifting them slightly to poke his beak beneath. As his grand finale, he shakes his tail like a dog shaking about after a long swim, entire body involved. Soon, the vain female stops preening and stands quietly on the pond’s edge and tucks her beak into her back feathers. After another minute, the male joins her. It’s not as if she’s paying him much attention anyway. But his break doesn’t last long and he begins primping once again putting on a show of fluffing and strutting his stuff. Ducks are silly creatures.
Slowly, I tread softly toward the ducks. The first female bobbing in the water continues to watch me with the black of her eye, whereas the vain female and the males couldn’t care less. Nevertheless, I stop about six feet away and kneel. I wish I had a camera, but it’s best that I haven’t brought one with me. Cameras tend to distract me from what I am actually observing. Rather than pay attention to nature, when holding a camera I focus more on the lens in front of my eye and my desire to take a top-notch picture to show off to friends and family. I find that I observe nature best without a barrier.
After another minute of kneeling, I stand up and walk away. I would rather not disturb their morning naps.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Response 5: Working on the Farm
Working on Eden Hall Farm, I felt right at home shoveling dirt, pushing wheelbarrows and enjoying a country view. Throughout my childhood, I lived near farmland on which farmers raised cows, sweet corn, alfalfa and various crops, so visiting a farm again felt like a typical day. And at my own home, I assisted my parents with their own vegetable garden and flower beds. My mother jumpstarted our gardens. As the eldest daughter of a farmer, she knew how to cultivate vegetables from seeds, plant fruit trees, and tend to flowers. By age four, when we planted our first garden, I helped cover seeds lightly with freshly tilled soil. First, we grew rows of strawberries, rutabagas, peas, tomatoes, green peppers, rhubarb, green beans, sweet corn, carrots, broccoli, and red potatoes. Years later, we added zucchini, yellow squash, cantaloupes, watermelons, cauliflower, snow peas, dill, basil, asparagus, red raspberries and fruits trees including apples, pears, peaches and sour cherries.
Needless to say, summer was a busy time of year. My sister and I were required to pick produce, the most consuming of which were green beans. Early in the season when plants were still small, picking beans was a relatively quick chore because pods were more visible. Toward the end of the bean season, though, as plants grew taller, pods blended in with thick stems and were difficult to see beneath large leaves of the same green hue.
Because gardening meant work, as a young child I didn’t always appreciate my garden. It wasn’t until I entered high school, after we built raised beds, that I assigned chores to myself. I would like to claim that I finally understood the importance of pesticide-free food. However, the reason for my renewed interest was based on the fact that raised beds resulted in fewer weeds and less crouching. All in all, a more positive and comfortable harvesting experience. As a result, I also took greater interest in my parents’ flowers. I volunteered to water all of the native and non-native varieties bordering our one-acre plot using water we collected in rain barrels. Roses, lavender, tulips, ferns, yellow lady slippers, blackberry lilies, black-eyed Susan’s, jack-in-the-pulpits, daffodils, hibiscus, and dozens more bloomed at various intervals through late fall. I could easily spend an hour watering, which allowed me to develop a type of relationship with flowers. When you spend that much time on a specific activity repeatedly, you begin to remember which plant grows in which location, where it thrives best, and how it changes from spring to fall. You create an intimacy caused by close contact rather than simply admiring blossoms from a distance. I took joy in hauling buckets and watering cans, a feeling I felt again at Eden Hall Farm holding a spade in my hands.
I have always admired my parents’ yard, and admire it more every year. They strive for diversity and organize plants in a way that works with the existing landscape as much as possible. The resulting effect is a colorful yard that appears semi-natural; not fully wild, but not so tame as to seem landscaped. My ideal garden would be very similar. I prefer an assorted combination of vegetables, fruits, flowers, shrubs and trees that are primarily native to the area; preferably plants that support butterfly and honeybee populations as well as attract beneficial insects in order to control destructive pests naturally. Unfortunately, considering that I currently do not own my own land or have space available, I will not plant this garden for several years. The class trip to Eden Hall Farm has been the most gardening I have done in a year. Hopefully, our efforts will prove successful and next summer I will have the opportunity to see flowers in full bloom.
Needless to say, summer was a busy time of year. My sister and I were required to pick produce, the most consuming of which were green beans. Early in the season when plants were still small, picking beans was a relatively quick chore because pods were more visible. Toward the end of the bean season, though, as plants grew taller, pods blended in with thick stems and were difficult to see beneath large leaves of the same green hue.
Because gardening meant work, as a young child I didn’t always appreciate my garden. It wasn’t until I entered high school, after we built raised beds, that I assigned chores to myself. I would like to claim that I finally understood the importance of pesticide-free food. However, the reason for my renewed interest was based on the fact that raised beds resulted in fewer weeds and less crouching. All in all, a more positive and comfortable harvesting experience. As a result, I also took greater interest in my parents’ flowers. I volunteered to water all of the native and non-native varieties bordering our one-acre plot using water we collected in rain barrels. Roses, lavender, tulips, ferns, yellow lady slippers, blackberry lilies, black-eyed Susan’s, jack-in-the-pulpits, daffodils, hibiscus, and dozens more bloomed at various intervals through late fall. I could easily spend an hour watering, which allowed me to develop a type of relationship with flowers. When you spend that much time on a specific activity repeatedly, you begin to remember which plant grows in which location, where it thrives best, and how it changes from spring to fall. You create an intimacy caused by close contact rather than simply admiring blossoms from a distance. I took joy in hauling buckets and watering cans, a feeling I felt again at Eden Hall Farm holding a spade in my hands.
I have always admired my parents’ yard, and admire it more every year. They strive for diversity and organize plants in a way that works with the existing landscape as much as possible. The resulting effect is a colorful yard that appears semi-natural; not fully wild, but not so tame as to seem landscaped. My ideal garden would be very similar. I prefer an assorted combination of vegetables, fruits, flowers, shrubs and trees that are primarily native to the area; preferably plants that support butterfly and honeybee populations as well as attract beneficial insects in order to control destructive pests naturally. Unfortunately, considering that I currently do not own my own land or have space available, I will not plant this garden for several years. The class trip to Eden Hall Farm has been the most gardening I have done in a year. Hopefully, our efforts will prove successful and next summer I will have the opportunity to see flowers in full bloom.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Place 5: Harvest Time
2:10 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 8
Normally, I don’t see much difference in the pond from week to week. However, today I noticed one main change: the water level dropped dramatically since my last visit two weeks ago. Before I even sat down on my bench to begin writing, I noted that the fountain’s small, flat, concrete disk lay fully exposed at an angle rather than to seemingly float on top of the water. Pitiful is the only word to describe the fountain’s appearance. Beneath the disk, a thin, dead branch sticks out awkwardly as if causing the tilt. Water spews from the spout at an impressive forty-five degree angle. I’m not sure if the stray branch is a recent occurrence or if it has been there all along. Either way, I think the time has come for Chatham to remove or replace the fountain. Since I enjoy the sound of running water, whether natural or man-made, I opt for replacement.
Shallow water also reveals pond features that weren’t fully visible in the past: rocks bordering the edge; a wire cable holding the fountain in position; scum-coated bricks; and a foot-tall drain at the opposite end furthest from the fountain. Nature, it seems, shares my opinion about the pond’s appearance because maple leaves and hemlock needles skim the water’s surface as if to distract observers. I must admit, I’m not entirely distracted. Slightly, though, enough so that I glimpse a nearby Eastern Hemlock tree that I have ignored for weeks. Growing up surrounded by white pine trees, I’m used to long needles and large, sturdy pine cones unlike the short needles—a mere half inch long—and tiny cones of hemlocks. I can’t help myself and pluck a cone from a low branch. It feels incredibly light and paper thin, almost soft. Gently, I place it in my pocket to take home.
As usual, fish school beneath the pond’s surface. I wonder if the leaves and needles bother them. If not, at least other animals in the area appear happy. All the squirrels and chipmunks have been very active today. I’ve seen at least one chipmunk, two grey squirrels and two black squirrels scampering about as if on a mission. I think they are gathering food for winter because they carry nuts in their mouths—although I can’t tell which kinds of nuts because rodents run so quickly. One squirrel, a black variation of the Eastern grey, skitters from grassy area to another, scratching the ground briefly before moving to the next spot. At first, I thought he might be searching for a place to store his nuts. But this I doubt because he would more likely store food in his nest in preparation for winter. Considering that Eastern grey squirrels don’t hibernate, I will probably continue seeing squirrels harvesting nuts and seeds so that they have enough to eat during the upcoming months. When I think about squirrels and other animals trying to survive cold weather, I’m glad to be human with a warm bed and grocery stores full of food at my disposal.
Normally, I don’t see much difference in the pond from week to week. However, today I noticed one main change: the water level dropped dramatically since my last visit two weeks ago. Before I even sat down on my bench to begin writing, I noted that the fountain’s small, flat, concrete disk lay fully exposed at an angle rather than to seemingly float on top of the water. Pitiful is the only word to describe the fountain’s appearance. Beneath the disk, a thin, dead branch sticks out awkwardly as if causing the tilt. Water spews from the spout at an impressive forty-five degree angle. I’m not sure if the stray branch is a recent occurrence or if it has been there all along. Either way, I think the time has come for Chatham to remove or replace the fountain. Since I enjoy the sound of running water, whether natural or man-made, I opt for replacement.
Shallow water also reveals pond features that weren’t fully visible in the past: rocks bordering the edge; a wire cable holding the fountain in position; scum-coated bricks; and a foot-tall drain at the opposite end furthest from the fountain. Nature, it seems, shares my opinion about the pond’s appearance because maple leaves and hemlock needles skim the water’s surface as if to distract observers. I must admit, I’m not entirely distracted. Slightly, though, enough so that I glimpse a nearby Eastern Hemlock tree that I have ignored for weeks. Growing up surrounded by white pine trees, I’m used to long needles and large, sturdy pine cones unlike the short needles—a mere half inch long—and tiny cones of hemlocks. I can’t help myself and pluck a cone from a low branch. It feels incredibly light and paper thin, almost soft. Gently, I place it in my pocket to take home.
As usual, fish school beneath the pond’s surface. I wonder if the leaves and needles bother them. If not, at least other animals in the area appear happy. All the squirrels and chipmunks have been very active today. I’ve seen at least one chipmunk, two grey squirrels and two black squirrels scampering about as if on a mission. I think they are gathering food for winter because they carry nuts in their mouths—although I can’t tell which kinds of nuts because rodents run so quickly. One squirrel, a black variation of the Eastern grey, skitters from grassy area to another, scratching the ground briefly before moving to the next spot. At first, I thought he might be searching for a place to store his nuts. But this I doubt because he would more likely store food in his nest in preparation for winter. Considering that Eastern grey squirrels don’t hibernate, I will probably continue seeing squirrels harvesting nuts and seeds so that they have enough to eat during the upcoming months. When I think about squirrels and other animals trying to survive cold weather, I’m glad to be human with a warm bed and grocery stores full of food at my disposal.
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