Abruptness, an about face, directions which have been forced now evidence some potential to relax. In several theatres, the characters I have known have seen a dynamic change, and with limited participation. Required breath is mostly spontaneous, but in fatigue, the mind numbs to a stop. Age and reason, both remind that futures have time to meld into reality. Where will that ball roll next, why must it always snow?
The night sky lingers in June in a so notable way. The same birds which feed before the 5 am dawn have maintained a pattern until the nearly 10 pm dusk. Their patterns dictated by the light, socialization, feeding, protectiveness, and ownership. When illuminated truth prevails, and in the dark, dormancy and secret. A roaming pileated woodpecker seems to run solo, but likely is mated, gathering, and dutiful. It has purpose to contribute to its own; partners which rely on each to continue, selection, self-will to remain. Will that linger as the long summer sun, or with the ripples of the seasons, ebb and flow?
Animals run, turkeys float, the sky's blueness remains, the grass so very green, and heaven is where I stare out upon each morning as I wake - yet, some have this belief that living in obscurity is possible, as have I, and the birds with yellow bodies have visited, as have the hummingbirds, when we both said, hummm, maybe a basket for them, as we agreed... balance, resonance, she knows not what I know, and lives a purported lie, maintaining innocence, or at least unvolunteering the truth, yet each day is slowed as molasses strives to drop under gravity, oh so slow, and my heart is wrenched with her nature.
Crisp sun shines through the living room windows, dogs laze with their black coats absorbing the days gift, an earlier walk evidenced a seemingly healthy greenish brine on the top edge of the dike, stone pavers heating proximities doing the same, at thiry four degrees water flow in the guttering is brisk and resounding as the roof-top snow vaporizes into the March sky, and most notably, slowly, a key to confidence that the first weeks of April will be uneventful, and the Red will remain sober for yet another year.
What makes the cold warm?
As bitter cold air surrounds, scraping deeper w/ exposure (time).
Mobility becomes compromised with thick pile layerings, and dormancy is sequestered.
What makes cold warm?
Crisis or tragedy fixes a vantage where less extreme is preferred, at least when longevity is desireable.
What makes cold warm?
Hope? But only ephemerally unless manifested.
Poignant action (motion) towards a preferably holistic and lasting solution?
But will we then ask, what makes warm cold?
For some, comfort is preserved in normality, while others w/ extremes.
Yet all systems inevitably find a balance point away from their once stochastic extremes.
What makes cold warm?
Energy
Implicitly: your own comfort zone is decided by the resources earned and the environment evolved from either work by you or others before you, and possibly serendipity.
-originally February 22, 2008 near 9 am en route to St. Paul
Slowly waddling through the deep snow were the river oaks turkeys. The white powder became trampled, now by turkeys, where the sunflower hulls were sprinkled under the suspended green and yellow seed basket, at least a virtual invitation to feed and roost. As I approached each retreated.
The next day, flying in from across the river, the rather rotund bodies flap to the ground, ambling up the hill to review the food situation to discover the gray squirrels' remnants from my attempt the previous day. Quickly these birds inhale any morsels of ground covering and as we watched from the living-room window. I donned my polar boots and jacket, scarf, gloves and cap, to offer more.
Their skepticism prompted retreat as I approached, but curiously they remained within eye shot. I splash seed again onto the trampled white and do some retreating of my own. They consume, then relish in the bright blue-skied sun that heats their dark thick feathers. Their water supply is the fine white powder they ingest as each flake is a kernel of moisture.
Bitter cold has a regular hokey pokey like action as one claw balances the rotundness, while the other is tucked high into the warmer feathery bush. Two of the five elect to perch four feet higher on the porch railing. It would seem that both our cats and dogs have grown accustomed to these big birds.
I am watching the ice start its dance on the river's surface marking the inevitable demise of moderate temperatures. I worry that as many as 90 days could pass without temperatures above zero (Fahrenheit) which requires attention to infrastructure. Fortunately many of the birds will remain for the duration, in particular Paul, who chips and chops daily, enjoying the regular suet that he has grown accustomed. Meanwhile, migration south continues.
| The setting sun swims south, no longer obscured by the now leafless trees to the north, the shadows grow taller. Both domestic and wild animals seem relaxed with the long slow migration to winter cold. Blue blue sky, water clarity and leaves scatter the landscape, the rump of a red squirrel protrudes up from her burrow stash of nuts just over the wood pile located our of reach from the typical spring thaw that is inevitable. |
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Wild turkeys are grown and feed from my hand, the riverfront groomed despite several large falls, protection to 38.4 feet, rye-blue spread well, more work, patio, sauna, clay. Pontoon on Bay, heat is good, everyday.
Wind blows, ducks paddle, fish swim, birds fly, and water flows while I monitor the red's rise to beyond 30 feet, just 8 short of my designed protection. Cool temperatures keep us dormant as does afternoon fatigue which finally is tapering from a recent return from Beijing.
Water began rising last week on the Red River of the North from alongside the banks where its thick icy crust remained fixed, but thawing under atypical temperatures. Yesterday morning we rose to the marriage of temperature with dew point providing an element of mystery and wonderment on how after several heated days the ice remained.
Near ten in the morning, water rising against an nearby upstream dam/falls no doubt contributed to the massive laminar sheets release. Reflecting its power from the solid motion, the sun continued to bake the morning fog. The noise, pops, crashes upon the undulating banks and water soaked trees were fantastic. Any small diameter trees were heard severing by the low velocity high momentum blows.
The motion remained cyclical for twenty four hours. The splintered logs and winter refuse skirted underneath when blocked. With time the river's span was no longer bridged by ice. Random episodes would prompt yet another jam but ephemerally. Four hundred square foot bergs would catch a corner on a flooded tree base issuing an abrupt stop, an audible stress, and followed by a flow rotation sending it again into the mainstream. Throughout the event, I remained curious on the state of the downstream northern frozen-ness of the river.
Canadian geese honked from high altitudes above, birds and bushy tailed tree rats continued to forage without any noticeable respect, this first major sign of non-winter. In returning towards the house after my river's edge inspection I hiked up the hill and was surprised to discover another sign the need to coexist with nature, the return of my nemesis, woody.
A brazen orange sky retreats to a western glow, while in Rome, a lunar eclipse wanes from totality.
Much of the winter lays behind, only limited shake from above has deprived us of an opportunity to exercise, both on skis and in my driveway pushing the white pile. I find polar cold to be an intriguing challenge when she first arrives. Temperatures near 30 below can serve dysfunction to the automobile, particular a specific German brand. While in NY, tens of feet of snow weigh down on roof-tops, we in Moorhead simply wonder if a bit more base would allow us to exercise our waxing hand.
Chronically I continue my bird metaphor commenting on the lack of "lemon birds" this year. Before the winter set in, we filled the hole with nearly 500 cubic yards of clay, allowing a much reduced reach to the feeding tubes. I wonder if somehow the changed landscape has my finch friends onto another feeding platform. For now, the woodpeckers continue to entertain while the greys and the reds seem to only annoy (but not completely).
Seeking food, comfort, recognition, solitude, and for reasons which are inherent.
Do I speak of American citizens? Russian or Chinese? Pileated, Downy, or any of the wide asunder of wild finches?
For humans, multi-decade-al bands represent the average span of function, with five being the norm.
The flight of the emotional-less shanghai pedaling has prompted a new recognition of intonation, challenge, and balance.
Bipedal, warm-blooded, oviparous vertebrate animals characterized primarily by feathers, forelimbs modified as wings, and (in most) hollow bones. (wiki) Not meant to be gilded, built to fly freely, food seeking, functional, and sensitive.
A cat, feathers ruffled, most get away, while some are ingested. Domestic wildness, tree clingers not moved by our presence, suspected sustenance remained the priority. Berries chewed from downed trees branches offer a backdrop of activity and comfort.
The house is heated but not repaired.
| Although near-distant storms and tornadoes helped a recent trend of greening grass, the season for growing is near its end. Instead, each blade works to store energy for next year, and I expect only one more cutting. The bees continue their mania for nector, as does a hummingbird near the finch tubes that have been increasing in popularity. The squirrels remain busy as this is the year that the agressive seeding burr oaks attempt to increase their numbers. I expect it will not be long before the racoons claw their way up the corner burr, and begin their several week vacuum of the roof-laden acorns. Two years ago I toyed with keeping them away, but this year, we might instead enjoy the visits. Besides, they entertain Stella and Ruthie into the night. I hung another peanut tube and enjoy more frequent visits from the hairy and downy woodpeckers. |  |
Limited rain, brown very dry grass, trees beginning to stress, yet after nearly one month without a need to cut grass, a thunderous rain storm is passing through the area.
The Horse Park opened today.
Hot sun shine is a most welcome luxury. Short haired black jacketed basenjis agree. The removal of one very large burr oak has opened the skies both for the morning sun, and for the evening stars. Surrounding trees provide border, and shorter days will allow earlier stars. A long pontoon ride on the Red would be delightful. Dropping a line to snag a few cats is also needed.
The sun-green trees have filled nicely, my Mhd neighbors are active, I am now several grass cuttings into the summer, annoying bugs have yet to evidence themselves, and the temperature soared on Memorial Day making for a hot and cleansing baking.
I enjoy the new sky from the deck throughout the day, the 150 year tree removed to provide for the levee retorfit. The low branch cleanings also have enhanced the property. Her exit was fascinating, leaving me much to burn for next season.
Woody showed up two weeks ago early, I, underdressed, grabbed my varmet pistol and jotted outside, he stayed from its cross hairs. He has not been seen again. His lower bearth has not been utilized this season.
The Evinrude started perfectly yesterday for a trip up to Convent Bridge and back, the river was at 18.5' or so, with a moderately high current. That, along with, Andrew's weight as compared to Gail's, may of prompted running out of gas, but some paddling was nice.
Hendrum has wickedly high grass now and I without a good method to transport the Snapper. I hope to sort that out soon. It may be that she was bought.
The bambies are clean and glow tan-brown, as opposed to the dark winter coat. Stella was excited by two tonight.
The turkeys remain, as do the Hairy's, a few lemon birds (as doodle refers to them) visits regularly.
The sun sets so wonderfully late in the Hinterland.
The month started wet due to a rapid snow melt which surged the Red to a near record high (37.2 ft, 20.2 ft above flood stage). The event was spectacular. A community army loaded and hauled bags to the dike, some 800 40 pound bags were eventually deployed to restrict water from the basement.
Predictions for crest heights continued. Three days before, a new higher crest was predicted, more stress and worry for my first protective dike. At crest, water streamed under the bags, across the black plastic tarp layed as base, and down the tiered wooden trestles that makes the dike. An blessed 80 gallon per minute sewage pump groaned below in full control. A nearby second provided backup security but was not needed at the time.
We walked the dike all of Sunday night, as the temperature dropped to near freezing. An orchestra of chippering pumps cycled, removing the ground water which was pooling from the stressed dike. On occasion one of us would grab a shovel and scratch a new mud trough to direct the water to a pool.
On Monday near 4 p.m. the crest was reached. The water began to drop, all so slow, as was the case with its rise over the past day, the final heights occur so very slowly, but my optimism began to stir.
Below the three feet of sand bag and plastic liner is the earthen dike, built to protect the river home from what was becoming a more common occurence - flooding beyond experience. Thwarting the walkout, it was build some 20 years . The earth and rooted grass is robust to temporary flow, but the 20,000 cubic foot per second flow rate was particularly powerful and potentially destructive. The last two feet of water remained for nearly one week; any vulnerabilities would surely be exposed in the extended period, and then the breach...
Embraced optimism allowed me an opportunity to check in with work. My family was encouraging sleep and my intent was to honor their request, but a quick email check would allow a gauge for the length of my dormancy. A quick check from my office window had me in my boots, dawned jacket running out the front house door declaring the dike had breached.
Bag after bag was peeled from a high point filling the burbling water on a mid point of the dike. Three of us fought, other watched, the water swelled. We err'd in attacking the sympton, not the disease, it beat us.
After the breach, the water level equiliized with near 6 feet of water in the basement in a matter of minutes. The door blew open at the 1.5 foot mark under the excessive pressure of the rising water; a closed deadbolt ripped from the door jam releasing a great deal of pressure that was on foundation wall. Water filled, the electric panel buried, the heating system buried, all remaining contents soaked in river water, some of which were floating.
For two days the water remained, freshly thawed, not far from its 4 degree base. On Thursday afternoon the water dropped to below the lip of the breach, and the pumps turned on using temporary power provided by the city. By the end of Friday, I could walk in the basement to inspect the damage while the wood ducks were swimming in my back yard.
Today, like yesterday, it rains...
http://phys-dev.umcrookston.edu/~demuth/ss/640/flood06/DSC_0016.jpg.html
The river and its thawing skin is rising and spilling onto the banks. A warm wind blows from the south convecting away the balance of the deep white slaw. In response to our late night presence, a beaver kerplunks and splashing into the dark, upstream, signaling open water. From white cold to sloppy brown, the Red River of the North is soon canoe navigable once again.
Chips, piled high, fresh inner'ds of an ash, lay exposed as the snow melts. Looking up, several canyons were formed in the middle section, evidence of my pileated friend's work.
Other deep scratchings nearby, but at the base, of sometimes large diameter trees, the beaver's goal: to fell and obstruct the creek called the Red, ambition or just a product of their inner programming? To chew, to fall, to cycle...
My nemesis is finding it difficult to decide on when to exit his winter burrow, having no low hanging fruit, greenery, or other shrubbery for his appetite. Last year he was effective on my tomato plant starts, this year I will know better. If possible, I'll be lassoing that varment before our dike disintegrates.
Allowing those masked as a utility to remain will eventually prove futile, and if capacity is already diminished, deathly.
The wood chuck woke from his slumber, pondered deeply whether awake, peered from his new exit, on a compressed snow covered dike. The crows have also been conspicuously aware, and my finches have been fewer. The grey squirrels continue to jump from the burr oak several feet onto the suspended seed baskets.
The girls and I walked, them without sweaters, down to the river this morning before 7 a.m. - they pulled heartily, remembering that near one of the two baskets was bread chunks, left for squirrels. The warm weather yesterday iced the surface where it would support their 20, 23 lb bodies, but mine, with my knee high sorels, sank with a snap, in places, the snow remained knee high.
The length of each days grows by over 3 minutes, today rising at 6:51 and setting at 6:24 pm (CST), progressing towards the June 21 crescendo. In addition to the wildlife in Moorhead, the length of the day is among the most significant reasons for living in the Hinterland.
This morning, in particular, despite the crows, and limited finches, a bald eagle swooned down upon us as we reached the fringe of our property.
The air is wet, the snow is compressing to a more shallow depth The predictions for trauma have subsided by twenty percent in some areas along the valley, yet there is a high likelihood of 30 feet before the end of May. Deepening and straightening the Red would allow for an increase of capacity. Those areas where the bows were eliminated would then become wet land, calculated as new, also providing as a drainage buffer, absorbing the shocks of magnanomous rains, silt erosion, untenable land use philosophies, and fast drainage associated with urban development. The added biodiversity would contibute to an oasis of plant, bird, and animals. Moose may find the tender wetland buds as tempting. Eagle, already on the rise may find additional comfort as would Canadian Geese, pileated woodpecker, and crane. Lightmatter
Two cars down, brushes and drop-outs, prompting welcome dialogue, for the eighty mile one way trip.
Early this morning, before a significant mel was realized, were noticed, a congregation of geese. The flock clustered, near a beet pond in north Moorhead, a spot returned to annually; several hundred, but today, the last of February, prompting my suprise.
Four days earlier we saw extreme temperatures, severe, these birds, selecting to live in that environment seems unlikely, this must of been their first day back. A welcome sign of spring to come.
Navigating the springtime requires presence, sensitivity, and tenacity.
Mounds of snow falling, large flakes, blowing through the leaveless trees, at times, nearly horizontally. Snow piles, then melts, but when? For us, in the Hinterland, the ground has been swallowed by snow since October. However, our many birds remain as cheery customers.
The dance was enjoyed, as was the lobster bisque. Wet snow fell much of the day, hampering vision of the river - my swarm of yellow birds decended early to harvest the thistle, from eaves on the house, a sheltered feed zone with consistent supply. A birch fire warmed the room. Doodle and Boo stay nearby. Gray squirrels were disuaded with high speed steel pellets; although reds are as common, grays are edible.
Snow on ice on snow on ice on snow form the foundation of my trail. Winter blows across the oxbows, filling in my path, as though they have never been traced, unless your eye is discerning. The crisp sun shown down to illuminate my history. I found, however, that in places the snow would not give, and my skis would only skim the surface.
When numerous large claw prints were discovered, I imagined hawks at first. Instead, a flock of turkeys stand dormant across the open field, collecting sunlight on their dark feathers, bundled together they find me of no real interest, as I continue to skate along the layers of white.
Each year the snow lays over the valley. Each year it melts. In that time many have discovered life, while others discover death. Like the seasons, we cycle.
What do we do when seasons pass before a love is discovered gone?
Where are the finches? The restaurant is open. Thistle tubes hang from the eves of our modern ranch home whose orientation is maximized for the mid-winter sun. Windows peering over a creek sized river known as the Red, where cat and walleye are known to be caught in its turbid waters.
A Pileated woodpecker was, however a regular visitor due to the water saturated spindles which adorn the area. Squirrels, both gray and red run the spaghetti junctions. Deer regularly graze.
Oil sunflower seeds in a basket hang from a high branch tethered by a cloth rope. Hairy Woodpeckers discovered the Felled by a crafty squirrel, replaced by a 25 foot dog chain.
Oil seed, woodpecker, chickadee, nuthatch, and then, golden finch, american.
The yard is now busy.
The mild winter presses forward, division, uncertainty are easy to embrace for most. Instead, I propose creativity to solve the dismay, creativity, feathered with humility but certainty that our work is to teach, to research, and to service.
