Susan Carol Hauser

Archive for May, 2014|Monthly archive page


In Bog-watching on May 29, 2014 at 11:45 pm

Peeping the Bog, May 25, 2014

The creek opens into the lake, its meager current not visible on the water’s surface, the way new growth in the bog is not visible through last year’s dwindling grasses, except where a vein of water parts the bog mat and this year’s growth emerges, a green line that will soon be obscured by the larger green of the bog itself, the way the skeletal forms of the trees will be obscured by this year’s leaves, coming on even now, the way the shape of our lives, the direction and force, is clear, sometimes, for a season, submerges for a while, long or short, inhale, exhale, one always leading back to the other.


Peeping the Bog: May 13, 2014

In Bog-watching on May 13, 2014 at 2:12 pm

Peeping the Bog: May 13, 2014

Yesterday at noon I turned off the primary switch for my house heat. Last night I built a fire in my woodstove to take the chill off the evening air. This morning I rekindled the fire and then, faced with bringing in more wood, I turned the heat switch back on. The deciding factor was the scene in the bay: ice coats the two little grass islands near the shore and reveals a third one. A lone water bird floats to the side of the westerly island. None stand atop. For a moment I wonder if it is November, if I somehow missed summer. The coming and going of the seasons are not always distinct. Even the summer birds at my feeders—rose-breasted grosbeaks, red-winged blackbirds, orioles; Harris sparrows on the ground cleaning up the detritus—could be migrating north or south. In a few days or a week or so the impetus will be clear: grass greening rather than going brown; the birds staying, working at their nests; the yellow dandelion suns blooming alongside the house, huddled there like little animals seeking warmth, will flower all across the yard. On the coolest of mornings the miniature islands in the bay, going green with the grass, will be lively with ducks and geese, each in their turn standing up to the sun.


Bog-watching: May 11, 2014

In Bog-watching on May 11, 2014 at 4:30 pm

Peeping the Bog, May 11, 2014

The water course in the bog – not the pencil-line of the creek that bisects from Lake Julia to Lake Puposky, but the slight water course that springs from the pressure ridge we call The Island and that meanders, as would a great river, to the bay, and that offered the first open water of spring, long before the bay ice separated from the shore, that water course that disappeared from sight for awhile, when the snow melted and the water retreated below the grasses, that water course this morning has emerged again, a green line drawn as though with crayon across the dun-colored canvas of the bog.


Bog Watching: May 6, 2014

In Bog-watching on May 7, 2014 at 12:18 am

Peeping the Bog, May 6, 2014

Last year’s grasses hold strong in the bog, but in the bay they are mostly gone. Two small islands remain, one two-feet in diameter, the other three-feet, more or less. I have been watching them now for several days. They are like bus stops for the birds. Canada geese and the occasional crow are the only ones I can identify, but other birds, gulls and small ducks come and go, stopping to preen, to look around. No one seems to claim dominion. The meager mounds are public property. They make me think about big rocks—erratics—in public places, especially alongside paths. Children and adults alike stop their passage and climb or leap onto them, standing for a moment higher than ground, looking around, as though there might be something more to see than can be seen from the path. Maybe we just like the feel of stone under our feet, or like to be above it all, a sort of mental preening of our feathers, a place to see from but also a place to be seen. 


Bog Watching: May 4, 2014

In Bog-watching on May 4, 2014 at 10:47 pm

Peeping the Bog: May 4, 2014

With the ice gone from the bay, white is a memory and last year’s cattails, reed canary grass and bulrushes dominate the landscape of the bog. Together, their color is as monochromatic as snow, and I yearn for the greening as I did for blue water.