Archive for January 2012
at the bird feeder #3
I am amazed at the volume of seeds these little visitors eat.
The deer, racoons and squirrels take their unfair share, of course. Last year, I watched a deer attack the feeder with its tongue, scooping up every bit of seed in a matter of minutes. Even without the deer and racoons and squirrels, the birds descend in a flock and the food is soon reduced to a scattering of seed-husks.
We have come to a conclusion – next year we will put up a mammal-proof feeder. My brother-in-law has it figured out. He has installed a large cedar post in an open area and encased it in aluminum pipe and flashing. Enough seed falls on the ground to give a treat to the squirrels and other marauders, and the birds are the focus of the money-drain.
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feeding the birds
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I wait, no patience to speak of
for the next bird to find
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this food more delicious than seed offered
by my neighbour, swears
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he had cardinals, mine the left-over
chickadees and nuthatches, flocks of redpoll
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litter the feeder, red-dotted heads, their toes
grip courtesy branches, a perch
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impossible to find, after the freezing rain, branches
encased in slip-and-slide, candy-coated nutrition
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won by complication, every kernel harder than stone
seed in a casing of black, sunflower
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and pencil draw the finches, grosbeaks smash seed-coats
with deliberate jaws, shards of sunflower husk and ice-coat
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fall as rubble
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© Jane Tims 2012
on pond ice
The days are short, reminding me of days when my son was young and I resented the brief daylight. We left for work in the dark and arrived home after the sun set. To spend just a little time with my son in the snow, I would turn on the outside light and play with him for a few precious minutes at the end of every day.
On weekends, we would seek out the smallest patch of ice and skate together. Any patch of ice would do. Some years we tried to make a small rink. Usually, we made do with the strip of ice formed at the edge of our driveway…
Our favourite place to skate was a small hollow in the grey woods behind our house. We dubbed it “Hoot-and-Hollow Pond” (because it was just ‘a hoot and a holler’ out back, and because we hear owls so often in the grey woods). The pond was small, but just the right size for my son to wobble around on his first skates.
In the years since we skated there, the trees have grown thick and tall around the pond. I went looking for it this week and found the ruin of the little bridge we built across a narrow place in the pond…
ruined bridge over Hoot-and-Hollow Pond...you can see the broken boards and old nails
and ice on the little pond itself…
Hoot-and-Hollow Pond today, the water level a little lower than when we skated there
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a skate on the woodland pond
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etch
brittle cracks beneath the weight
of blades, we spread our bodies thin
twirl on the delicate lift
of snowflakes drift
above the pond, gather
firs around us, lean away, bend
beneath the weight of snow, find
room to glide, the edge where white birch
cage faint light
magnify the gleam
of paper bark, frail ice
white snow and stars
resist the dark
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© Jane Tims 2011
the skater
One winter day in the early 1970’s, I took a walk, alone, down to the shore of one of the chain of lakes extending from Dartmouth to Fall River in Nova Scotia. Near the edge of the lake, I sat down on a log to watch the snow fall. As I sat there, I had a memorable experience. A lone skater, on racing blades, skated into the cove. He had no idea I was there and skated with the abandon of solitude. This event remains unique in my experience and will always be one of the loveliest happenings of my life.
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solitudes
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shortest hour
shortest day
hike to the lake
on the rail line
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stunted stride
grey rails
grey sky
blue mittens
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2.
the cove is a glimpse
between branches
birch and maple support the sky
expectant with snow
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I wiggle to warm
a place on a log
to watch
snowflakes like mayflies
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bark cracks
twigs snap
mittens, knees and elbows
tucked
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3.
the cove is an oh!
of unspoilt ice, black
smooth, bound
by ice-skinned cobbles
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last summer I turned one
found a salamander, red as berries, crushed
beneath the weight of air
skin panting in dapples of sun
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today all colour is trapped
in the droop of high bush cranberries
fat sickles of ice
and the electric blue of mittens
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the snow sifts down
I lift my mitt to catch a flake
clings to the wool, white jigsaw
puzzles with atmospheres between
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dark ice dwindles
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4.
a cymbal rings on heavy air
not the crack of hardened bark
but the ring of steel, the scratch
ice shaved by a metal edge
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a lone man skates
round the curve of the shore
long-limbed as a spider he strides
on racing blades
stretches his arms
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turns one toe and leans, a compass
marks a circle on the empty page
three quick strides and a figure
he touches a hand to ice
to steady the turn
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alone, he dances
and I am nothing
a stump, bent vibernum
berries under snow
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neither breath nor mittened hands
only eyes, watching
and in a while
closed
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5.
fines of snow
ease the heavy sky
the trees lean
the skater gone, the cove unwritten
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white on the lake, the shore
the tree bark
the berries
even the mittens, white
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© Jane Tims 2000
at the bird feeder #2
We had snow during the night and I can see clearly who has been at the feeder this morning… so far, only a few chickadees and nuthatches, and , of course, the pesky grey squirrel.
Do you have a bird feeder and what birds do you see?
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birds at the feeder
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feeder fill
seeds spill
nuthatch and chickadee
upside-down
crowds of goldfinch, redpoll
branch to branch
to ground
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© Jane Tims 2011
at the bird feeder #1
Today our bird feeders are a mess. Racoons and grey squirrels don’t keep neat houses. However, the seeds scattered across the deck are attracting a delightful array of birds. The last few mornings we have had:
a few chickadees (Black-capped Chickadee, Parus atricapillus)… they grab a seed and swoop to the nearest low branch to break the seed open… they seem to travel in small groups, but bicker with one another at the feeder…
a few nuthatches (Red-breasted Nuthatch, Sitta canadensis)… they are acrobats, grabbing to the feeder and then flipping inside to get the seed… they are solitary, sometimes in small groups of two or three… they leave one another alone, each taking their turn…
a flock of goldfinches (American Goldfinch, Carduelis tristis)… gregarious, they are all a-flutter and feed together side by side… they hang around to break open the seed and tolerate other species beside them…
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goldfinches
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bright feathers distil
yellow from atmosphere
essence of sunflower
tipple and sip champagne
make small talk at parties
gesture with hands
paint scallops on air, animated discussion
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the gregarious obtain information
best feeder in the neighbourhood
best seed
least squirrel
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© Jane Tims 2011
snowdrift
Wind is not visible, yet we can describe the shape of the wind. Along the shores of our lakes, White Pines are wind-blown into irregular forms to show the direction of the prevailing wind. In my poem ‘Clear Lake’ (see the post for August 26, 2011, ‘deep waters – Clear Lake’ under the category ‘waterways’), I describe these as “group of seven trees/ flung southward”. Artists from the Group of Seven were famous for their depiction of this symbol of the Canadian wilderness. A good example is the painting ‘White Pine’ by A.J. Casson.
'White Pine' by A.J. Casson, from the book 'Images of Nature: Canadian Poets and the Group of Seven' compiled by David Booth, Kids Can Press, Toronto, 1995.
In winter, the shape of the snow also captures the three dimensional form of the wind. The easiest manifestation of this is the way horizontal surfaces record the direction of blowing snow.
Snowdrifts form as the wind blows quantities of snow into shapes resembling dunes of sand. As kids on the prairie, we loved these snowdrifts since we could tunnel in them and build fantastic snow shelters. Today, I can watch the drifts build across our lawn and transform its flat surface into the artistry of the wind.
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Drift
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after the storm
snow heaps
high against the wall
fingers of the wind sculpt
etch shadows
into vacant white
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sunshine flashes
summons prisms
from hollows of snow
warmth shivers through the drift
crystal
into cataract
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a tendril of snow
clings
damply to the wall
a lingering winter ivy
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Published as: ‘Drift’, 1994, The Cormorant (Fall 1994) XI (1)
revised
© Jane Tims 2011
witch’s broom
In the Balsalm Fir tree over our shed is a strange growth, like a dark mass of short deformed branches. This dark mass of branches is known as a ‘witch’s broom’.
A witch’s broom is a common term for an abnormal growth caused by the action of an agent such as a mite, virus, insect, or fungus. The agent causes a branch of the tree to grow from a single point, resulting in a mass of twigs and branches resembling a nest or broom. Many kinds of plants can have a witch’s broom deformity, including many tree species.
Animals, including the Northern Flying Squirrel, use the witch’s broom as a nesting place. The Northern Flying Squirrel is the big-eyed squirrel invading our feeders every night (see ‘spacemen in our feeder’ under the category ‘competing for niche space’ for December 23, 2011).
Witch’s brooms occur frequently … we have at least three in our grey woods. They lend an air of mystery to the woodland. People used to believe a witch had flown over the place where a witch’s broom grew.
If anyone knows of another name for the witch’s broom, please let me know. Years ago, we visited a small farm museum in northern Maine and an example of a huge witch’s broom was displayed in the shed, labelled ‘horrah’s nest’, but I have been unable to find this term used elsewhere.
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wood witch
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burdened by snow
a tree falls
tumbles a witch’s broom
the witch set free
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a hex on the snowfall
slate where the dog walks
cuts her feet
soft rubies in every track
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a hex on the room
cold as I left
now warm
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too warm
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© Jane Tims 2001
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