Prodigal ephemerally returning

Back in the world of the bloggers
Summer heat sapped creativity
Made me wish for cooler climes

A year away
Life moving to end

...or begin again with urgency to find itself wrapped in some season

Summer, fall, winter spring

All revolving around the calender we falsely label with days

I am here again

tadpole in the pool
Happy for now
It is feast or famine
I waste days hoping it won't dry out before my tail is absorbed

And I can hop away

Happy

Ephemerally Yours,
Drew

Home

"I think that maybe home is not so much about the most acres we can secure--but maybe about the few where we feel most secure." JD Lanham ---sometime in 2K8

Return of the Prodigal

Someone once said something about the best laid plans...
Well, my plans were to write faithfully to my nature blog on a "fairly regular" basis. Well, the last time I contributed to my little creation here, we were in the very shallow depths of a South Carolina winter. Now, here we are in the infancy of summer, having leapt clean over spring...

As time has passed, and temperature increased, I must admit that I have not faithfully followed a dear writing mentor's advice to me of writing everyday. Sure, I think about the process, but there are so many days that pen simply does not meet paper-- or in most cases for me, fingers meeting keypad.

Nature of course, goes on whether I write about it or not. Since my last entry, I've literally been on the other side of the earth to see nature in a very different light. A two week sojourn in South Africa cruising about the North Cape was one of the most enlightening experiences of my life. The landscapes were vast--intimidating in many ways in fact. The wildlife was wonderfully diverse. The photo attached to today's entry is of a gemsbok from the Kalahari (Kgalagadi) Transfrontier Park. It was a wildlife ecologists paradise and a birders dream. More on that later! I am, though, still trying to resolve some of the human ecology that I saw. I hope to drop a few notes on the blog here to post hoc a bit about the various and sundry issues swimming about in my head regarding my trip to the Motherland. It was definitely about more than the birds.

In between Africa and now I've also been in the spring snows at Keystone, Colorado and on the bays of downeast Maine. So I do have a lot in fact to write about--to share about so much.

And so I am back....ready hopefully to be a better and more faithful contributor. I'm not asking for any fatted calves to be killed on my behalf (some of you will get this) but I do feel the open arms and welcome. The prodigal nature writer has returned...

Naturally,
Drew

My Dream Home

A little shack in the woods

In a well-established and wild neighborhood

Rough sawn, hand hewn and cedar strong

This rustic haven comes with a time-tested tin roof

and built in rain- drop-sleep inducer

Forest frontage and sunset views

Solar heated with breezy-blow through cooling

Deer and other natives retain right -of-way

Marooned

Living as I do

Beside busy people barely neighbors

Dodging cars and chasing time

Amongst trees that should not be here—

Where brittle Bradfords bear bitter fruit and Leylands pretend to be cypress

I crave quiet

A slower pace

Time measured in sunsets

And the return of the natives—

Liquid trickling songs of sparrows in the Longleaf

Ovenbirds teaching in oak and hickory

In a landscape fragmented by subdivisions

Named for the wildness they replaced

I am marooned

Stuck in a sea of cement

On an island called suburbia

Begging and baiting the birds to eat black oil handouts

The wildlife-

squirrels and starlings

Chipmunks and chickadees

Find refuge between the chain-link

The lines drawn to keep lawns sovereign

The world I crave is far away

In woods and fields and forests

Nameless and whole

Where the neighbors don’t speak

But bark, and gobble and sing

Where the squirrels are less brazen

And deer not dogs guard the world

In-Between

The days when pen and paper do not meet

When the lettered keys grow cold

When inspiration flies away

Darting between hum and drum

To avoid the ordinary

Like some fleet and furtive accipiter

I wonder when the mood will return-

A day a week or more?

When trees or birds or sky will inspire

A line or two

A reflection of time or place

The in between days are empty pages

No hunts no pecks

Until maybe

a vermillion flash through a wall of green

and a cardinal ‘s sweet song

“Purdy, purdy, purdy”

Full, rich and clear

Cheers the day

or a sinking sun

mellow golden orb against an orange and purple sky

dying to be reborn against the next morn’s new one

sets the mood to feel and think and write

of sights, sounds and scenes

until in-between

the doldrums sap the creative winds

and the sails fall flat

mind adrift until once more

the trades fill the canvas

and the in-between day

is just a memory

Winter's plumaged palette

These days are the January doldrums for me

The mid-winter “blahs”

Trees—bare boned and sleeping still

And me feeling sluggish too…

Shades of gray dominate many days

But if one looks closely

The subtlety of the season holds beauty for the focused eye…

An angry kinglet with a ruby crown,

Sassy titmouse perky gray and skulking thrasher brown

Constantly curious Carolina wrens

Bawdy blue jay rancor and self-proclaiming din

Cardinals flashing brightest red and a flicker flashing gold

Paint a plumaged palette that colors winter’s cold