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Found Waldo

Cabin fever yesterday.... Got out with my camera and walked Kathryn Albertson Park. The ponds were drained with patches of snow.

Hoping to photograph the usual American Wigeons I then walked over to Ann Morrison Park and those ponds were just patches of snow.

During my lunch break today, I looked out on the commons lawn and here came a foraging flock of American Wigeons.... and ...... in their midst, a Eurasian Wigeon. "Oh please," I thought, "keep coming to the creek and swim by the front of the house. But oh God, I gotta change lenses. Do I have enough time?"

Did the lens exchange, put memory in the mother ship, checked power. "Now what setting????..... shutter priority, 250th of a second....." And there they were. There he was as I opened the front door....

I'm always hopeful of seeing cedar waxwings among foraging robins and dare I hope for a Bohemian? And was once treated to a varied thrush among the robins.

That surprise bird, maybe nemesis or not, that moment of joy from deep within that wings up among the synapses, the wonder of birding.....

When we moved east to the Lakewood subdivision, my bird feeder combination changed. I just use one multi-grain hopper and three thistle feeders. This past Spring I had all the usual suspects as on the bench, but no chickadees or nuthatch. I heard them but no recorded visits. At the bench feeders, American goldfinch represented 99.9 percent of their species. But here at Lakewood, the lesser goldfinch was and continues to be the overwhelming visitor. They were the only recorded birds for my Thanksgiving count. Emily was right, "Hope is a thing with feathers."

I read a story this week about how surprised the world is that there is no looting practiced in Japan.  Maybe the following memory can be illustrative.

Kanazawa, Japan is a city famous for its gold leaf production and lacquer boxes.  Nestled on the Southwest coast of Japan, its dormant trees and shrubbery were still held up tight in their hemp trusses above the lingering patches of snow on this brisk day in March 1986.  

I had been walking one of many ancient Buddhist temple grounds with my friend Paul.  There on the path ahead us were a couple thousand paper yen shuffling along the way. In Japan my dollars didn't buy very much as the yen was worth ever so much more than the dollar.  So I of course, stepped ahead to retrieve the escaping booty when I felt my arm abruptly jerked back.  Paul had reached out with the hook handle of his umbrella handle and stopped me a La the Gong show.  "What are you doing,'' I asked?  "That money isn't yours," said Paul.  "But......" I said.

We sat down on a gnarled burl bench at Paul's direction.  "Watch and learn."  That money trampled its way and continued to be ignored as it blew off into its oblivion.  There is little if any theft in Japan.  Paul began to explain that transportation companies find it very hard to return lost sweaters, purses, umbrellas, hats and cameras behind.  Items left behind just pile up where they are left.  It is such a problem that after a while they are discarded, not auctioned. The ethic is...... If it's not yours to begin with, you have no right to it.  An ethic the rest of us might wish to consider.

Paul and his wife Susan were just in Boise this past summer.  We had a wonderful picnic dinner one evening down at the Idaho Power Swan Falls Dam park.  Paul teaches English in Japan, now in a place I fear was in harm's way.  I called Paul and Susan after the earth quake.  They still haven't returned my call.  

Thoughts about the rambling yen, Paul and Susan and the plight of my Japanese friends awakened me this morning.  If I found that money today, I would pick them up, fold them into little bows and tie them to the tree branches, as is the temple practice of little prayers left behind.

All my best,

Bob

the fourth season

blush rushes 'cross

ambered maple dutch

the oaks and willows

scarlet rouges such

spring's memory

is fading fast

summer's folly

couldn't last

leaves and petals

soon to be dust

remember man

that fate you must

what joy is there

in becoming earth

where cold and damp's

devoid of mirth

a place where fool

and royals dwell

where sons and daughters

sing death's nell

the fourth season

reminds us rust

scales the skin

a patina thus

time peels away

as tears are shed

like an onion's skin

on the ground of the dead

the moon hoists spring

as bare choirs mend

the seasons four

have ends to mend

spring's life rises

from death's remains

and never looks back

from whence she came

'til summer's

consummation's once more wed

amber and rouge

sleep still in their bed

autumn

wildfire
rouges morning’s cheek
embers
glow at evening’s peak

moon-set
fading faces dawn
migration
v’s its amber yawn

tomato days
swell ripe with plunder
peaches
drool pink my blunder

hawthorn spines
serve scarlet sweets
mason jars
host savory beets

blackbirds
quibble bluster bets
rusty leaves
on koi pond set

pastel light
is smudged once more
night
rolls long from twilight’s shore

blithe summer descends
the shadow of the wind
autumn
whispers, I come again

the season of descent

when summer’s raiment falls to earth
wilting life is giving birth

corn husks litter stubble fields
winter moans the fall it yields

fallow nests await next spring
summer sails on eider’s wings

days are lean as sunflowers list
frost clings about in sapphire mist

tulips sleep in pregnant peace
ascension yet beyond their reach

honks announce broad flocks of geese
suet hangs for chickadees

scare-crows mock black-winged beasts
pumpkins bake for harvest’s feasts

choirs of trees stand stark and mum
the season descends..............................awaits the sun