A Bird, came down the Walk – He did not know I saw – He bit an Angle Worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw,
And then, he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass – And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass –
He glanced with rapid eyes, That hurried all abroad – They looked like frightened Beads, I thought, He stirred his Velvet Head. –
Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb, And he unrolled his feathers, And rowed him softer Home –
Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam, Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon, Leap, plashless as they swim.
***
I’ve been hanging out in the garden far too much, not able to brave the heat for more adventurous excursions. But I shouldn’t complain, given the number of visitors happily parading in front of the camera, as long as the plants provide sustenance or I bring out the bird seeds….
Quite a few youngsters,
and one of the butterflies makes my heart beat faster, since he comes every day, a relentless survivor given that someone ate half of his wings.
Squirrels now letting me come so close I could practically give them a manicure, or is that a pedicure?
Bees, in contrast to last year, are leaving me alone, too busy in the lavender.
An occasional newt
Summer. An oasis. Not even a slug to fight with. I feel blessed.
Then again there is always a mouse that needs transport far away from my basement….lest it comes back the next day.
Music matches the mood – maybe Mother Goose comes down the walk next. In the meantime, the chickadees get fed.
Layli Long Soldier’s (Oglala Lakota) first full-length collection Whereas (2017) won the National Books Critics Circle award and was a finalist for the National Book Award. Her poem above was published in 2018, in one of the most interesting anthologies around: The New Poets of Native Nations.21 authors write about their thoughts and experiences of being indigenous people in America, with work published after the year 2000, the heirs to Joy Harjo and Sherman Alexie.
“New Poets of Native Nations gathers poets of diverse ages, styles, languages, and tribal affiliations to present the extraordinary range and power of new Native poetry. … Collected here are poems of great breadth — long narratives, political outcries, experimental works, and traditional lyrics — and the result is an essential anthology of some of the best poets writing now.”
The diamond structure of the poem allows the reader to find their own path – combinations of diverse actions taken or ignored, for past, present or future. At the core, inevitably presented and crossed, is grief. But at the beginning and the end is an “us,” the reason why this poem stirs me. The words “as we” and “our faces” acknowledge, in my mind, that grief is shared, and action as well as consequences can be communal. The harmful ones, but the empowering ones as well.
By the way, all the words in this poem also appear in a Native American Apology Resolution, signed by then President Obama. Never heard of it? I hadn’t either – it wasn’t a direct apology from the government, but rather apologizing “on behalf of the people of the United States to all Native peoples for the many instances of violence, maltreatment, and neglect inflicted on Native peoples by citizens of the United States.” The resolution included an important disclaimer as well: Nothing in it authorizes or supports any legal claims against the United States, and the resolution does not settle any claims. Robert T. Coulter, executive director of the Indian Law Resource Center, pointed to the “overwhelming silence” regarding the resolution. “There were no public announcements, there were no press conferences, there was no national attention, much less international.” No wonder we didn’t know.
***
In a month that has seen the highest Court in the land generally rescind rights that were granted to the vulnerable or those with less power in our social, historical and political landscape, it is important to remember that we can and must build coalitions.
In another ruling, 303 LLC Creative vs Elenis, discriminatory behavior was given the green light for a business offering customized expressive services, allowing it to violate state laws prohibiting such businesses from discrimination in sales (as it turns out, the facts presented for this case were based on lies, but the Court seemed to be not caring or oblivious.) The revival of the ugly spirit of Plessy vs Ferguson is going full speed ahead.
And a 6-3 majority on the Court dismantled affirmative action in college admission policies, a process originally granted due to an acknowledgment of structural racism. Note, it did so for elite educational institutions (and likely to extend to businesses and institutions of all kinds focused on diversity, equity and inclusion), but leaving the practice standing for military academies. I am paraphrasing someone who said this first: minorities can die in the bunker, but not share the boardrooms…) which struck me as particularly apt.
Here is a summary by lawyer and court observer Dahlia Lithwick on the outcome of this term – I am quoting her verbatim because she is succinct and hits the nail on the head.
To see why this term was not some kind of triumph for moderation, consider the decisions that commentators have deemed huge victories for the left. Moore v. Harper simply rejected the independent-state-legislature doctrine, a fringe theory that was rendered toxic by its central role in Donald Trump’s failed coup; at the same time, the court awarded itself ongoing authorityto rein in any state courts that it deems to have gone “too far” in protecting democracy, codifying a minority viewpoint into law. United States v. Texas merely put a new limit on the outrageous collusion between red states and a clutch of rogue Trump judges eager to seize control over immigration enforcement. Haaland v. Brackeen followed precedents reaching back two centuries in upholding Congress’ power to protect Native people; even then, it left the door open to future legal attacks on Indigenous rights. Allen v. Milligan affirmed an interpretation of the Voting Rights Act that has stood for nearly four decades and imposes moderate limits on racial gerrymanders. It was arguably the one clear-cut “liberal” victory of the term, and that’s only because the protection of voting rights has now become coded as an exclusively liberal concern. Even that “win” came only after the court left an illegal gerrymander in place for the 2022 midterms, and after years of attacks on Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act that left it much weaker than it used to be.
Now consider this term’s victories for the right. Biden v. Nebraska abolished a program that would’ve forgiven $430 billion in student debt for 43 million borrowers by concocting a self-contradictory theory of standing then relying on a “major questions doctrine” that isn’t a real doctrine. 303 Creative v. Elenis gave for-profit companies a First Amendment right to discriminate against LGBTQ+ people for the first time ever. Students for Fair Admissions put an end to race-based affirmative action in higher education as we know it. Jones v. Hendrix condemned innocent people to languish in prison under illegal sentences through no fault of their own. Sackett v. EPA revoked federal protection over millions of acres of wetlands in a grievous blow to the Clean Water Act that will devastate sensitive ecosystems, endangered species, flood control, and drinking water. These decisions were interspersed with smaller conservative rulings that promoted key tenets of the conservative legal project, including one that offered an existential threat to unions’ right to strike and yet another favor to corporations that seek to dodge lawsuits.
The grief – The grief – The grief – The grief.
Yet, there are also words full of fire, thoughtfulness and resistance. Do read the dissent in the Affirmative Action case penned by Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson (starting on page 72 of this link) – I’d give my right arm to write with such clarity, persuasiveness and power. Converting grief to light across our faces, summoning communal resolve to serve justice. Let’s choose the right action – and the right team.
Here are the words of a man who knew:
“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the center of the universe.”
Photographs from New Mexico, where the poet Long Soldier resides.
Music was written and performed during a time of hope and glimpses of change. Why should we not also hope that we can win back what is so systematically destroyed right now? There must be a path.
this website had crashed and it took more than a week to get it fixed. Sorry for the unannounced interruption.
Save the date: for those readers living in the PNW, I would love to see you at our photographic art exhibition, opening Saturday, September 16th, 2023. Details about The Gorge Beckons: Change and Continuity will come closer to the actual date.
Today I want to introduce poems by two women who experienced war, prompted by yet another unsettling death. One, Anna Swir (Świrszczyńska, 1909 – 1984) survived WW II as a member of the Resistance in Warsaw during the German occupation. During that time she escaped execution by the skin of her teeth, and saw death and destruction on a daily basis as a war nurse. She wrote about her experiences in a poetry volume first published in Poland in 1974, Building the Barricades. I picked the poem below because it honors those risking death to serve a just mission, defending their country against imperial aggression. But I am also linking here to one of her longer poems that I cherish for its emphasis on the possibility of survival and resurrection, even during the darkest times. It appeared in the collection Talking to my Body, translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan. Milosz tried hard to introduce Swir’s work to folks beyond Europe, not entirely successfully.
Air-raid sirens across the country It feels like everyone is brought out For execution But only one person gets targeted Usually the one at the edge
This time not you; all clear
by Victoria Amelina
Translated from the Ukrainian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky
First published in the anthology entitled “Invasion: Ukrainian Poems about the War”, SurVision Books, Dublin, Ireland, 2022
Last week, she was the one. Amelina (1986-2023) was killed in Ukraine by a Russian missile while meeting with writers and political activist at a restaurant in Kramatorsk (together with many others, it turns out, children included. Despite being rushed to a hospital, her injuries were too traumatic for survival). The 37-year old mother of a young son had left her flourishing career as a novelist behind (her work has been translated into Polish, Czech, German, Dutch, English and Spanish and won multiple literary prizes) to join the Human Rights organization Truth Hounds when the Russians invaded Ukraine. She relentlessly traveled to discover and document war crimes, working on her first non-fiction book, War and Justice Diary: Looking at Women Looking at War, which was due to be published. Now posthumously. Here she is on June 6th, less than a month ago.
.
Several poems appeared during this last year of her life, engaging with other victims of the war, interviewing women who lived through Russian occupation. Here is one that emphasizes the importance of remembering. I must say the official rallying cry of “We must never forget” has taken on a sour taste for me, given that the implication – if we remember we won’t repeat – is currently severely challenged. But Amelina wants us to remember the name of the victims, disallowing a complete victory of wiping out a culture and its representatives, human beings who could have contributed so much across a life time, herself included. May her memory be a blessing.
Poem about a Crow
In a barren springtime field
Stands a woman dressed in black
Crying her sisters’ names
Like a bird in the empty sky
She’ll cry them all out of herself
The one that flew away too soon
The one that had begged to die
The one that couldn’t stop death
The one that has not stopped waiting
The one that has not stopped believing
The one that still grieves in silence
She’ll cry them all into the ground
As though sowing the field with pain
And from pain and the names of women
Her new sisters will grow from the earth
And again will sing joyfully of life
But what about her, the crow?
She will stay in this field forever
Because only this cry of hers
Holds all those swallows in the air
Do you hear how she calls
Each one by her name?
by Victoria Amelina
Translated by Uilleam Blacker.
Music today is about the town of Lviv, Amelina’s birthplace. The town is a gateway for over 3 million Ukrainian refugees who have left eastern and northern parts of their country to flee Russian bombs and seek refuge in Poland, Slovakia, and Hungary. They all transit via Lviv, by train, cars, buses. From the late 18th to the early 20th century, Lviv was also part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and today symbolizes for many the prevailing Ukrainian hopes to once again be part of Europe.
…Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear—both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
Meadows filled with daisies.
Walk with me while we can figure out the remainder of the (loooong)William Wordsworth poem Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey. Just as his title points to a familiarity with a specific place, so you should recognize one of my perennial go-to places: the meadows along the Tualatin River. (Do read the poem, it is bitter-sweet and remarkably un-sentimental reminiscing.)
The meadows were in bloom, covered with daisies, sprinkled with lupines, mallow, morning glory, dog roses, clover and whatever else coloring the world in loose, saturated carpets.
The birds were about, as were the musk rats, chasing annoyed ducks.
Killdeer
Robin with lunc
Red winged black birds and kestrel.
Gosling wherever you looked, with very attentive mothers.
And two herons chasing each other, until one gave up and the other landed right in from of my nose and camera. Yours truly, perhaps not a sufficiently moral being, but at that moment a very happy one.
Farmers tilled the dusty soil, reminding us once again what is at stake in an increasingly heated world (it was 73 degrees yesterday during this walk, first day of June, in Oregon, need I say more?.)
Yes I need to say more: how on earth did Manchin get his dirty pipeline deal expedited into the debt ceiling bill? What was it that made President Biden cooperate on this demand? So much for the administration’s promises to support clean energy rather than fossil fuels, along with allowing cuts or restrictions to food programs and other assistance for vulnerable Americans.
I will not spell out what I hope Manchins’ and his ilk’s destiny will be, but here are the Norns weaving a thrilling hope for destiny…. (from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung)
In the parched path I have seen the good lizard (one drop of crocodile) meditating. With his green frock-coat of an abbot of the devil, his correct bearing and his stiff collar, he has the sad air of an old professor. Those faded eyes of a broken artist, how they watch the afternoon in dismay!
Is this, my friend, your twilight constitutional? Please use your cane, you are very old, Mr. Lizard, and the children of the village may startle you. What are you seeking in the path, my near-sighted philosopher, if the wavering phantasm of the parched afternoon has broken the horizon?
Are you seeking the blue alms of the moribund heaven? A penny of a star? Or perhaps you’ve been reading a volume of Lamartine, and you relish the plateresque trills of the birds?
(You watch the setting sun, and your eyes shine, oh, dragon of the frogs, with a human radiance. Ideas, gondolas without oars, cross the shadowy waters of your burnt-out eyes.)
Have you come looking for that lovely lady lizard, green as the wheatfields of May, as the long locks of sleeping pools, who scorned you, and then left you in your field? Oh, sweet idyll, broken among the sweet sedges! But, live! What the devil! I like you. The motto “I oppose the serpent” triumphs in that grand double chin of a Christian archbishop.
Now the sun has dissolved in the cup of the mountains, and the flocks cloud the roadway. It is the hour to depart: leave the dry path and your meditations. You will have time to look at the stars when the worms are eating you at their leisure.
Go home to your house by the village, of the crickets! Good night, my friend Mr. Lizard!
Now the field is empty, the mountains dim, the roadway deserted. Only, now and again, a cuckoo sings in the darkness of the poplar trees.
by Federico García Lorca
The heat this week made me lounge like a lizard,
occasionally getting up to seek a place further in the shade
too lazy to do much else,
just hanging and watching the insects fly by,
until it was time for dinner.
Every single one of these strangely hot days in May…. refusing to move.
Here is Pink Martini with a tune about the black lizard, leading us hopefully into a cool(er) weekend.
I was primed for color, after watching Yimou Zhang’s recent film Shadow. It is a visual and a psychological master piece from the maker of so many famous martial arts movies, and drew me in, although the levels of violence were at peak. According to the director, the visual scheme is based on the brush techniques of Chinese painting and calligraphy, a world of black and white (and grey) were it not for the flesh tones of the actors’ faces and bodies, and the voluptuous dark blood that splatters the screen whenever swords, knives, arrows, and crossbow bolts start to fly. The cinematography, particularly of group scenes, is stunning, and the psychological dilemmas around court intrigue, peace or war, and the impossibility of love freely given and received keep you drawn in, with a complexity of evil and good that matches the multitudes of grey shades in a bleak black and white landscape where it perpetually rains.
So, I was ready for color, real color, and the universe complied. The Huntington’s Chinese Garden, Liu Fang Yuan 流芳園, the Garden of Flowing Fragrance, was filled with color, both natural and man made. Established in 2008, the 15 acres garden is one of the largest and most authentic classical-style gardens outside of China, according to the website. The link above will allow you to learn more in detail – I will just share the beautiful sights, particularly of the Bonsai collection which was breathtaking.
Here is the Library building:
Pathways lead to a large pond with happy turtle families.
Eventually you climb up to the area displaying the bonsai. I could have stayed there the whole day…
But so much else clamored for attention. There were the touchstones, warm where the sun hit, but completely insulated on all other sides, rubbed blank by exposure to the elements and peoples – invited – hands.
And there was the bamboo forest in all its green glory, its swishing sounds in the breeze and its surprise inside.
On a day sunny last week, my son took me to a beach, El Pescador, near Malibu, where he occasionally fishes.
A beautiful spot, with the tide still out, allowing me to explore the rocks and tide pools and all that they house. Every new bird set off a quick heartbeat, from cormorants, to king fisher to whimbrels.
A beach where benevolent pirates decided to make it easy for you to find treasure… DIG HERE!
I was particularly taken by the range of colors, not those of the sea as in Mary Oliver’s poem, but those of the rocks, fauna and flora surrounding me.
Reds, greens, yellows, ochres, turquoise, purple, oranges, grey and blues filled the eyes if you looked closely. Lots of pictures, then, and few words – treading with light feet and a full heart in view of nature, once again.
Tides
Every day the sea
blue gray green lavender pulls away leaving the harbor’s dark-cobbled undercoat
slick and rutted and worm-riddled, the gulls walk there among old whalebones, the white spines of fish blink from the strandy stew as the hours tick over; and then
far out the faint, sheer line turns, rustling over the slack, the outer bars, over the green-furred flats, over the clam beds, slippery logs,
barnacle-studded stones, dragging the shining sheets forward, deepening, pushing, wreathing together wave and seaweed, their piled curvatures
spilling over themselves, lapping blue gray green lavender, never resting, not ever but fashioning shore, continent, everything.
And here you may find me on almost any morning walking along the shore so light-footed so casual.
By Mary Oliver,
From A Thousand Mornings, 2012
The stone formations and differing colors never cease to amaze.
Here is a musical offering to the oceans from around the world.
Walk with me. A first exploration of a neighborhood, with many more to come, I’m sure. Share my pleasure at discovering diverse sights, some funny, some spectacular, some moving, all embedded in a long history of a place that was originally inhabited by the Hahamongna (or Hahamog’na) tribe of the Tongva people. Spanish colonialist built the San Gabriel Mission a bit southeast of Altadena before they settled Los Angeles.
The Mexican government had dibs on the region in 1826 after they had claimed independence from Spain, before it came into the possession of the US in 1848. A 14,403-acre area called Rancho San Pascual* was given to Mexican citizen Juan Maríne in 1834 as a land grant. The rancho (which covered parts of modern-day Pasadena, South Pasadena, Alhambra, San Gabriel, San Marino, and San Pasqual in addition to Altadena,) was eventually parceled into many distinct neighborhoods. (Much of what I learned comes from the Altadena Historical Society, founded in 1935.)
Non-hispanic immigrants started to move into the area that is bounded on three sides by wilderness (the Arroyo Seco, Angeles National Forest, and Eaton Canyon), and on the south by the city of Pasadena, founding nurseries and farms. One of the new nurseries owners, Byron O. Clark, coined the name “Altadena” from Spanish “alta”, meaning upper, and “dena”, a Chippewa word meaning “crown of the valley”. This was a reference to the fact that Altadena was in higher elevation or north of Pasadena, which was founded years earlier. His friends, the so-called “fathers of Altadena,” John and Frederick Woodbury who brought development to the subdivision with hotels, roads, train station all attracting new settlers, were given permission by Clark to use this name in 1887.
Fences echo diversity – from Piet Mondrian to rushes.
Main crops grown were grapes, expanding into oranges, olives, walnuts — and in the early 20th century, dates, avocados, and commercial fruit and ornamental plant nurseries. The vineyards were one of the reason that Altadena insisted on staying unincorporated, since Pasadena which tried to stall the area was ruled by temperance minded Mid-western immigrants and serious about prohibition. To this day, that independence has held, with around 40.000 citizens preferring a looser political structure.
Altadena originally attracted rich folks, in addition to the farmers, with many millionaires building large estates to flee the heat of the summer wherever they lived. An originally 96% white population saw a large change with a subsequent flurry of white flight during the 1960s and 1970s civil rights movement, the Vietnam War protests and issues of school integration combined with the ever increasing, thickening layer of smoke from L.A. that piled up against the surrounding mountains. Non-white residents moved in, establishing Altadena as one of the most diverse places of the region today. Ethnic diversity is reflected in civic life, making for a wonderfully integrated community.
Horses hang out in front yards, unicorns in garages. Chatted with a friendly leather worker who restored a saddle in his garden.
On Sundays, families meet in the public parks for soccer games, taking their picknick lunches and blowing bubbles for the kiddos. You hear predominantly Spanish, but other foreign languages as well. I had just read Clint Smith’s new poem Nomenclature in The Atlantic and was thinking of how language of familial origin gets lost across generations for so many reasons, a topic to be explored at a future point. The facts that words with similar sounds can mean different things, or change meaning with just a barely perceptible sound switch fascinates me to no end – fully aware that none in my family will ever share the complexities of the German language, and not really sad about it, as long as they use the riches of language of their own. But that would be different if the language of origin is at the verge of disappearance, as for so many enslaved tribes, or small minority groups.
Your mother’s mother came from Igboland though she did not teach your mother her language. We gave you your name in a language we don’t understand because gravity is still there even when we cannot see it in our hands.
I ask your mother’s mother to teach me some of the words in hopes of tracing the shadow of someone else’s tongue.
The same word in Igbo, she tells me, may have four different meanings depending on how your mouth bends around each syllable. In writing, you cannot observe the difference.
The Igbo word n’anya means “sight” The Igbo word n’anya means “love”
Your grandmother said, I cannot remember the sight of my village or Your grandmother said, I cannot remember the love of my village
Your grandmother’s heart is forgetting orYour grandmother’s heart is broken
Your grandmother said, We escaped the war and hid from every person in sight orYour grandmother said, We escaped the war and hid from every person in love
Your grandmother was running from danger orYour grandmother was running from vulnerability
Your grandmother said, My greatest joy is the sight of my grandchild or Your grandmother said, My greatest joy is the love of my grandchild
Your grandmother wants you present or Your grandmother wants you home.
In any case, hearing everyone’s supportive screams during the game produced joy – like any sense of community in action. Kids getting ice cream, just dropping their mini scooters, people proud of their old timers.
And since today is International Women’s day I’ll celebrate one of the strongest female wordsmiths of the English language and equally strong champion of community, MacArthur fellow Octavia E. Butler, who lived and is buried in Altadena. Here is funky music compiled in her honor.
Facing west from California’s shores, Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound, I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled; For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere, From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero, From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands, Long having wander’d since, round the earth having wander’d, Now I face home again, very pleas’d and joyous, (But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?)
by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
I have always related to the feeling that (most) travel implies search; even if you can’t quite name what you are searching for: you do know if you found it or not. It might be the thrill of adventure, it might be vast increments in knowledge about the world otherwise unavailable to you, or, as was regularly true for me, new insights into who you yourself are, when taken out of your habitual context. You might or might not like what you discover, but there you are.
Stop for a Covered Bridge (1907/1945) originally fording the Willamette river – now an interpretative center for the history of the region before the Dexter Dam flooded the area.
All of this still applies even when you travel primarily to be with someone, if the journey takes you to a place that is sufficiently different from the one you come from, as is the case here and now, in Southern California. Really, the entire drive down once again affirmed the incredible spectrum of landscapes this beautiful continent offers.
Closed pass over Mt. Shasta re-opened the next day. Plowed snow and abandoned trucks on the right.
It was not without challenges. What looked like a sunny day after a safe escape from the snows of Portland, turned into a nail biter. Winter weather closed more southern portions of I 5, forcing an unanticipated stop in Ashland, OR. Luckily we found accommodations.
Not what you expect the California’s fruit bowl to look like…
Rains and thunderstorms made for intense navigation out of San Mateo, the next stop, once yet another closed part of the Highway across the San Gabriel Mountains reopened. But no ice and snow on the road, at any time, with plows working overtime.
Getting greener once south of San Mateo, although the storm clouds gathered and opened their spigots eventually.
Flooding along the road and cold cows….
First palm trees appeared, whipped by win
as did miles of fracking for oil.
Green hills giving way to snow-capped mountains along the stretch of I5 called The Grapevine.
Then snow flakes in L.A.! Or more precisely Pasadena, where I rented a small studio in lush green gardens that didn’t quite know what to do with 35 degrees.
You’ve got the visual diary of the route. Once I’m settled, I will report on the current sights. Here is a teaser from the view out of my window. No bird remains unfound…
Music today is more of an introduction to the diversity of immigrants and their folk music (16 languages) of California. A fascinating project in the 1930s that withstood the xenophobia of the time. Here is a link to the Library of Congress where you can choose which of the above mentioned music you want to listen to.
Pull up a chair. We are not walking today but looking out of my window, something I was forced to do most of last week since I had to navigate the consequences of a fall. (All good now, no worries.)
I resumed photographing the squirrels on my balcony. When you stare out of the windows for hours at a time you can eventually identify a cast of characters by their distinct markings. By now we are on a first name basis.
Meet Fire Ear, my favorite, since s/he’s fearless, happy to look me straight in the eye and defiantly pees into my flowerpot during visits. Every single time.
Then there’s Mohawk, whose tail is either fashionably barbered or the proud emblem of victory in a previous fight.
Nipped Ear has obviously been victorious as well, and is aggressively defending his position at the peanuts when other squirrels arrive.
Red dot is the leanest of them all and shy,
Butterball only appears when the big guys have had their share,
and occasionally there’s an enterprising Baby.
The word squirrel is Greek in origin: it comes from skiouros, from skia, meaning “shadow,” and oura, meaning “tail.” When they sit up and move their tail straight one could think of it as a bit of an umbrella, I guess.
There are a whopping 200 species across the world, all born altricial, or completely dependent on their mothers for the first three months of their lives. They hoard food in caches for lean times, able to dig up stuff even under a foot of snow. Some 25% of those stores are lost to raiders, some are never dug up, which in turn helps to grow new trees, in theory. Not in my flowerpots, where nuts disappear en masse.
They are crepuscular, that is most active at dusk and dawn, so they can hang out when it gets hot during the middle of the day. They also sport hyper mobility (they can rotate their ankles by 180 degrees,) which allows them to climb in amazing ways, with forearms stretching, while the backless are anchored to the tree limbs. Oh, and their teeth never stop growing. Good thing, too when your perennially wear them down on hard nuts.
It brings me such joy to watch them, prohibitions to feed them close to the house (they might start nesting in the rafters) be d-mned. The poem below could not be more apt.
Here is a field recording of Squirrel Flower – longtime readers might remember the location, deCordova sculpture park in MA, I wrote about it here.