In Peeping the Land on September 17, 2014 at 8:56 pm
Peeping the Land: A Survey
September 17, 2014
Mushrooms in Clover with Oak Leaves
I want to ask, what kind of mushroom are they? I want a common name, a Latin binomial, a family history, as though to name is to understand, to know in a better way than just looking at them allows. They are as large as salad plates, mottled in color, browns and golds, deep, deep shades of magenta. I know this about them: they have come up under the oak trees for several years now; they are not there one day, and they are there the next, or so it seems; they are ominous somehow. They should not be touched, I think. I walk wide around them, the way I stay clear of some ideas, some thoughts, some desires, some hopes, at least until I can know their common names, their Latin binomials, something, please, of their histories.
In Peeping the Land on September 8, 2014 at 11:04 pm
Peeping the Land: A Survey
September 8, 2014
The garden is almost done with its summer work. I have dug up the potatoes, reds and Yukon golds, and have pulled some of the carrots, though most I am leaving in the ground for Thanksgiving, when I will dig them, probably through snow, and will bring them to the kitchen, the freshness of the garden, the pungent smell of soil emanating from them, filling the kitchen with promise one more time. The green beans are done. I gathered a meager handful from the leggy plants before I pulled them and laid them to rest on the heap of other spent greenery at the end of the garden row, the beans safe in my pocket. The tomatoes I still have hope for. I have brought in one or two a day for the last week, but there are so many still working toward red. There was a light breeze moving through the air as I bent over the beds, and briefly some motion in the mess of weeds I had tossed on the path, a leopard frog moving in and out of sight through the leaves. It stayed away from my feet, but was not in a hurry to leave altogether, as though it, too, would not mind if time slowed down for just a while, just this one time.
In Bog-watching, Peeping the Land on September 2, 2014 at 2:23 pm
Peeping the Lane: A Survey
September 2, 2014
August 30 post revisited.
From my window, I watch the bog. No human foot treads upon it, not in winter or spring, not in summer, not in this incipient autumn when the grasses and reeds separate from each other by way of color, chartreuse where the water course runs, dark forest where the creek enters the bay, fern where the grasses mix with each other in disarray. The bay is equally blessed with solitude and disorder. Lillies and wild rice and flora I cannot name crowd the open blue water of summer. There is profit in the overage: the swans still eat here and Canada geese, though I think the pelicans and loons are gone. Soon the arctic loons will arrive, along with other migrating fowl, cormorants, blackducks, snow geese, many that I do not even try to name. They will not stay long. They are only fleet messengers: we are here; we will be back.