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Cranes (Monday, January 27, 2014)

2/21/2014

With the last warm day and snow forecast for the rest of the week, I drove to Dayton and Spring City on business. On the way up, I saw two small flocks of cranes circling over Route 27 near the Hamilton County, Rhea County Line. I had heard that they were congregating at McDonalds Farm, which is near that juncture, but gave their presence little thought.

On my return, I saw numerous flocks of Sandhill Cranes circling over the same location. I turned off at the sign for McDonalds Farm and within 50 feet I found the landscape transformed. A field on the right held a flock of 100 or so, and I heard calls of cranes from further in. I rounded a corner and the cranes were there, in a long narrow field on the left. A cluster of several hundred stood back from the road, and then another and another. Some were within 100 yards of me as I slowly drove the road, stopping at times to glance to my left. With the windows down I could plainly hear them calling, but not as vocally as I have heard them at other times. I estimated the number of cranes at 10,000 or more. Another observer had sent out a message in which he placed the number at 15,000. He was there on a different day, and I can’t argue. I have never mastered the skill of counting large numbers of birds.

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Ice on the Levee

2/18/2014

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Ice on the Levee (Sunday, January 26, 2014)

The warm sunny day called me to walk the Brainerd levee, one of my favorite haunts in Days gone by. It was well after 4:00 in the afternoon when I arrived and began with quick paced strides to pond enclosed by a bend in the structure.

Absence was a notable feature this day. I saw few of the perching birds that dominate the skyline here. No large flocks of American Robins or Cedar Waxwings filled the trees. One or two cardinals and a pair of Mockingbirds filled out the population, along with four European Starlings, strangely different from the huge winter flocks that often congregate on the driving range across the road.

As I reached the second bend, I was pleased to see large growths of mistletoe on the trees across South Chickamauga Creek, but the heron nests were gone entirely. I remember one March day seeing a number of them sitting on nest, and a Great Horned Owl with two chicks occupying one heron nest which it had claimed early that year. Neither Great Blue Herons nor Great Horned Owls graced the opposite shore, though the Great Horned Owl normally lays her eggs in January.

Although open water was not totally absent, is was also not abundant. Ice covered most of the pond. In the open water on the far side I saw a nice flock of Northern Shovelers swim toward the shore in single file. Several males on, two females patrolled the icy water. A small group of Gadwall, two males and two females patrolled the open water near the shrubs. I am surprised these shrubs continue to grow, their roots in water soaked mud.

A flock of Green Winged Teal claimed the larger opening further down the shoreline. Though I saw no killdeer, four shorebirds worked the shoreline. They were the proper size to be Wilsons Snipe, but not identifiable.

As I walked back to the parking lot and my truck, I noticed a small flock of Canada Geese crossing the sky over the levee. Then flock after flock came to their place in the marsh. I would number them at 200 or so. Even in the depth of freezing winter, the birds make their home at the Brainerd Levee.

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Crane Festival

2/17/2014

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Crane Festival (1.18.2014)

My mind had filled with the expectation of a dense crowd of Sandhill Cranes, much as I had seen in past years, my eyes undecided as to where they should focus. Flocks would glide across my field of vision, flapping wings with the slow downbeat of regal ease.

Their movements always appear easy, giving the lie to the high energy requirements of flight. The casual observer has no idea of the stress on feathers or the necessity for air sacks in their bodies and hollow bones. Everything that can be spared has been stripped away to make these birds light enough to fly.

Landing, the birds would disturb the crowded shoreline of the slough, causing those already on the ground to shift and dance. Even my old, half deaf ears would fill with that rattling coo unique to cranes, a sound like doves on steroids, doves amplified 1,000 times. Then the rattle would become mere background noise as I scanned the crowd for the one or two Whooping Cranes, pure white against the gray of their smaller kin. As I scanned for whoopers, I would notice the occasional sandhill stained reddish brown with mud, as they, sometimes are.

This expectation was not fulfilled. At the viewing platform, I examined a small finger of water, the closest part of the slough, and saw cranes on neither near nor far shore. A scattered few gleaned what they could from the rows of corn on the hill beyond the water, while a dozen or so gathered beneath the branches of a pine. Calls were an occasional punctuation of the stillness, rather than the expected incessant racket.

The cranes had dispersed, but bird watching opportunities abounded. As I looked across the open water of the main body of the slough I observed a larger flock on the much more distant shore. A large bird circled over the tree line and seemed to have a white head. As I watched this Bald Eagle soaring, another came to my attention higher up, circling with a third. The shape and plumage confirmed it was a Golden Eagle.

I looked back to the small finger of water, to see a smaller brown bird of prey work the farther shoreline. As it circled and moved, its turns revealed a flash of white above the tail. The white rump is an unmistakable mark of a Harrier, sometimes known as a Marsh Hawk.

I had seen Harriers work the salt marshes of Cape Cod, with mice and large insects as their prey. Brown females and gray males showed a more obvious difference in forms, sexual dimorphism to the scientist, than many other raptors. The Harrier of this day was indeed a female, though one observer said he had spotted a male bird earlier in the day.

Where some birds soar, and rise aloft on air currents, this Harrier glides just above the marsh grass. Arriving at a snag, she lifted up and crossed over. Then she was down to grass top level, circling and gliding. When she spotted something of interest, a potential meal, her flight stalled as she back pedaled with wings outstretched. She hovered, and descended for the catch.

Eagles and red tailed hawks soar and then swoop to catch prey. Vultures soar and land on carrion. Falcons stoop at 200 miles per hour and slam into smaller birds with a talon closed like a fist. Owls ambush their prey in dark of night.

Harriers and Osprey hover, and then descend to grab the prey. The smallest local falcon, the Sparrow Hawk, Kestrel to the ornithologist, also hovers, searching for insects. I have seen Red-Shouldered Hawks appear to hover, though I might be technically wrong in applying the term to them. For grace in motion though, I have seen few birds equal the Harrier as she hovered above this particular marsh.

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Valentines Day Poems

2/14/2014

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Beneath Wild Azaleas

as published in Southern Light: Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Southern-Light/159959427392604

Sprouted on the thinnest soil
Rooted to a rock
Footholds in fissures
Dappled sunlight
Scattered on your leaves
Nourishes root and branch

Icy water numbing toes
Above a waterfall
I cling to a rock
Upon a cliff
Water cascades to the abyss

Only you and I see
The girl with the golden hair
Haloed by the sun
One hand in mine

Moonbeam

As published in Southern Light: Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Southern-Light/159959427392604

Flame red hair
Dressed in black
Surfing down a moonbeam
She dances under oaks

Bare feet on mossy turf
Gathering shed skins on snakes
She buries a dog skull
'Neath tobacco and herbs

Pale skin in bare moonlight
On a mountain top
She presses next to me
Full moon burns through a tree

Time's Geography

From an out of print chap book

Behind the waterfall the reds
and blues sparkle and shine

Behind the rushing stream the
rainbow forms and dissolves

Leaving the illusion
the droplets flow downstream

I emerge from the river
They flow down my chest and arms

A fire of driftwood warms me
Logs burned cannot grow again

I cannot cross time's geography to where
I held you close, felt the beat of your heart

I collect my belongings from your car port
Leave my key, and float downstream

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Too Old to Text?

2/1/2014

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Sir:

I was somewhat taken aback by your recent message, particularly since I am not she for whom it was intended. Speaking as a published author, I must say that what your message lacked in romance and imagination, it certainly made up for in directness of approach. Should it reach the intended recipient I hope that the lady in question is duly impressed.

I was somewhat intrigued by your mention of a tailor. As I recall, the activity to which you allude requires no clothing whatsoever. Apparently, neither does texting, judging from your attached photo. Should further correspondence prove necessary, please leave off the photo

I soon realized that your intended word was not tailor, but trailer, as in ”let’s go to your trailer.” I do not own such a mobile domicile, but I can well imagine that it might be a convenient place to, as you so quaintly state the matter, “Do it.” Perhaps I should look into acquiring a trailer of my own, but I digress.

Of all the many faceted aspects of your message, I as most intrigued by my own opportune location when I received the test. You see, I am a somewhat elderly gentleman, and I was seated in church at the time. Specifically, I was at a Christmas Eve service which celebrates a birth, an event to which your suggested activities might well lead. They appear to be of a less divine nature though, despite that fact that some might refer to their various such assignations as “heavenly.” I was in fact awaiting communion when your message arrived, suggesting a different sort of communing.

All of that said, I wish you and your intended the best of luck in your endeavors. Sincerely, A. Knave

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Cranes (Monday, January 27, 2014)

Ice on the Levee

Crane Festival

Valentines Day Poems

Too Old to Text?

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