...and this is "the maple".
Friday, August 24, 2007
Sunset from Smelt Bay
Great sunset, he says to us as we're about to leave the beach. The show is just about over and the stragglers from the neighbourhood who don't get a direct view from their oceanside decks have been walking the beach to catch the sunset, the first "good" one in several weeks because of the rain and overcast weather.
Yes, we agree, beautiful.
Too bad, he adds, now that he has our attention, that all that beauty is caused by chemtrails.
Chemtrails? Oh oh.
Yeah, he says, they're spraying the skies with chemicals to stop global warming, or maybe they're spraying the skies with anti-depressants to keep us all more or less happy.
I'm not sure what to think about either of these theories, or to take them as seriously as I take the fact that "Canada" is selling depleted uranium to the United States.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Birdwatching
Sitting on a lawnchair and looking towards the south, I saw a large, dark bird hunched on a branch of a fir tree. A raven, I thought. Or an eagle, maybe. I didn't really pay too much attention to this silouetted figure as both ravens and eagles are common on Cortes Island, so much so that I have become less excited about their appearances as they glide overhead, screaming as they clutch a mole or mouse in their claws -- or, in the case of the raven, a sandwich stolen from someone's lunchbox.
Well, I'm sitting in the heat towards the end of the day, when the sun is losing the greatest power and the sun's rays offer the memory of heat more than heat itself, and I notice this hunched shape on the tree, and mention it to Steve. What do you think that is, I ask him, a raven or an eagle?
I don't see anything, he answers, and continues to suck on the stub of a Bandi cigar and work on the cryptic crossword.
If there is a drama unfolding out there in my yard, I want to be fully part of it, so I keep looking at the fir tree until I realize that there is more than one of these hunch-shaped birds sitting in the tree. There are two, three, no five. I count them, and the more I look, the more of them I see until I count up to nine birds hunching in the trees in a small grove of cedar, fir, and spruce trees just to the left of where I am sitting, and about 100 feet away from me. The sun has not set, and in fact we haven't even begun to plan our evening's trek to watch the sunset, but the sun is less intense than it has been all day, and the birds, whatever they are, seem to be settling down into the branches. And with that many of them, I know they are not eagles. And I've never seen ravens stay that still, or remain that quiet, for that long, so I know they are not ravens, either. And the body shape isn't right either, anyway. So, I keep watching, and then notice glimmers of bright red, the colour of blood, on their necks, and then I recognize these nine black shapes on the trees 100 feet away from me are turkey vultures.
They're turkey vultures, I tell Steve. Nine of them.
Nine turkey vultures sitting in trees, looking down at one spot, can mean only one thing. Death. Because these vultures aren't swooping to the ground, I can't tell where this dead thing might be, but it's pretty certain that it is not far from where these vultures are hunching and surveying the land below. But they are just sitting there, and one of them has even opened his wings like a thunderbird and is soaking up the last of the sun.
The blackberries are starting to come out, which means weeks of picking ahead of us, unless it starts to rain and they get bogged down. We plan our walk down Hayes Road, past several banks of blackberry bushes and straight on to a public beach access where I can look for my daily piece of beach glass and water polished pieces of oyster shell art. We will pick our way down to the beach, watch the sunset, and then pick our way back up home again.
We get enough berries to satisfy our immediate berry gluttony, and then some for breakfast. Steve lies against a rock on the beach, too tired after a day of spreading plastic over the fibreglass insulation, riding his bike, swimming, and walking, to look for beach glass or polished oyster shells, so it's up to me to find this stuff, which is for my own amusement anyway.
Back at the property, one 2-centimetre by 2.3-centimetre piece of beach glass (clear) later, the vultures are still vulturing, and Steve pushes through the salal and oregon grape to find the dead thing, because by now the vultures are swooping down from the branches and into the brush and staying there before swooshing up again. But, he can't find anything and this morning I go out there and look for myself, girding myself for the possibility of finding a dead person, or a dog, or a cat. But, I find a fawn, its head bent backwards and its four legs folded into each other, looking as if it had died while sleeping, curled into a ball. There are a few holes pecked into the fawn, but mostly the botflies are having their day, and the vultures, who are still hanging around, fly off as I enter the scene, circling while I investigate.
There is of course nothing to be done, now that I know that there is no need to bring in the police, so I leave the vultures to their business, making a note to myself to return to the scene to collect the bones.
Well, I'm sitting in the heat towards the end of the day, when the sun is losing the greatest power and the sun's rays offer the memory of heat more than heat itself, and I notice this hunched shape on the tree, and mention it to Steve. What do you think that is, I ask him, a raven or an eagle?
I don't see anything, he answers, and continues to suck on the stub of a Bandi cigar and work on the cryptic crossword.
If there is a drama unfolding out there in my yard, I want to be fully part of it, so I keep looking at the fir tree until I realize that there is more than one of these hunch-shaped birds sitting in the tree. There are two, three, no five. I count them, and the more I look, the more of them I see until I count up to nine birds hunching in the trees in a small grove of cedar, fir, and spruce trees just to the left of where I am sitting, and about 100 feet away from me. The sun has not set, and in fact we haven't even begun to plan our evening's trek to watch the sunset, but the sun is less intense than it has been all day, and the birds, whatever they are, seem to be settling down into the branches. And with that many of them, I know they are not eagles. And I've never seen ravens stay that still, or remain that quiet, for that long, so I know they are not ravens, either. And the body shape isn't right either, anyway. So, I keep watching, and then notice glimmers of bright red, the colour of blood, on their necks, and then I recognize these nine black shapes on the trees 100 feet away from me are turkey vultures.
They're turkey vultures, I tell Steve. Nine of them.
Nine turkey vultures sitting in trees, looking down at one spot, can mean only one thing. Death. Because these vultures aren't swooping to the ground, I can't tell where this dead thing might be, but it's pretty certain that it is not far from where these vultures are hunching and surveying the land below. But they are just sitting there, and one of them has even opened his wings like a thunderbird and is soaking up the last of the sun.
The blackberries are starting to come out, which means weeks of picking ahead of us, unless it starts to rain and they get bogged down. We plan our walk down Hayes Road, past several banks of blackberry bushes and straight on to a public beach access where I can look for my daily piece of beach glass and water polished pieces of oyster shell art. We will pick our way down to the beach, watch the sunset, and then pick our way back up home again.
We get enough berries to satisfy our immediate berry gluttony, and then some for breakfast. Steve lies against a rock on the beach, too tired after a day of spreading plastic over the fibreglass insulation, riding his bike, swimming, and walking, to look for beach glass or polished oyster shells, so it's up to me to find this stuff, which is for my own amusement anyway.
Back at the property, one 2-centimetre by 2.3-centimetre piece of beach glass (clear) later, the vultures are still vulturing, and Steve pushes through the salal and oregon grape to find the dead thing, because by now the vultures are swooping down from the branches and into the brush and staying there before swooshing up again. But, he can't find anything and this morning I go out there and look for myself, girding myself for the possibility of finding a dead person, or a dog, or a cat. But, I find a fawn, its head bent backwards and its four legs folded into each other, looking as if it had died while sleeping, curled into a ball. There are a few holes pecked into the fawn, but mostly the botflies are having their day, and the vultures, who are still hanging around, fly off as I enter the scene, circling while I investigate.
There is of course nothing to be done, now that I know that there is no need to bring in the police, so I leave the vultures to their business, making a note to myself to return to the scene to collect the bones.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Identity
I feel like I am very far away from St Petersburg, now, living in a place where I put my baseball cap on backwards, don't wash my hair for days in a row by choice, where I walk on forest paths instead of concrete...
We're sleeping in a tent, cooking in a camper, washing in a lake, walking down to see the sunset every night at Smelt Bay, and eating a lot of spinach salad. The pug toddles around the property, and luckily we have a sawdust covered meandering path between the cabin, which we are getting ready for drywalling, and the camper, where pug spends most of his time watching for stray bits of food to fall his way. I concern myself with important things like "is there any beach glass here on this beach?" or "should I close my eyes while I am lying in the sun, or keep them open?", or, "pass me another beer, would ya?" The pug just looks at me, though, when I say this, and I have to get up and go over to the camper where the Swedish made propane fridge looks after chilling the Argentinian beer that was on sale. Take one out. Put another one in. Adjust my baseball cap. Think about ... nothing.
I realized this morning that I could take my laptop to the power shed across the road and sit on a rock next to a plug and write. But six pileated woodpeckers flew through the yard, and I forgot about writing. I briefly thought about the Russian soul and came up with a blank. The Russian soul? What is?
We are almost out of bread.
I want to build a round domed building on the property. I imagine myself sitting in the middle of it, and I imagine windows all the way around, and rain falling in the middle of winter.
What does it mean, to grade a paper?
We're sleeping in a tent, cooking in a camper, washing in a lake, walking down to see the sunset every night at Smelt Bay, and eating a lot of spinach salad. The pug toddles around the property, and luckily we have a sawdust covered meandering path between the cabin, which we are getting ready for drywalling, and the camper, where pug spends most of his time watching for stray bits of food to fall his way. I concern myself with important things like "is there any beach glass here on this beach?" or "should I close my eyes while I am lying in the sun, or keep them open?", or, "pass me another beer, would ya?" The pug just looks at me, though, when I say this, and I have to get up and go over to the camper where the Swedish made propane fridge looks after chilling the Argentinian beer that was on sale. Take one out. Put another one in. Adjust my baseball cap. Think about ... nothing.
I realized this morning that I could take my laptop to the power shed across the road and sit on a rock next to a plug and write. But six pileated woodpeckers flew through the yard, and I forgot about writing. I briefly thought about the Russian soul and came up with a blank. The Russian soul? What is?
We are almost out of bread.
I want to build a round domed building on the property. I imagine myself sitting in the middle of it, and I imagine windows all the way around, and rain falling in the middle of winter.
What does it mean, to grade a paper?
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