Posts Tagged ‘nature’
sounds in the silence #1
If niche has colour, it also has sound. Some of those sounds are soothing, the sound of a babbling brook, or the wind in the Red Pine. Some sounds are alarming, the cry of a child, or the squeal of brakes. At my office, there are multiple sounds in the background – people talking, computers whirring, copiers copying, printers printing. When there is a power outage, I am amazed at the silence of the building, and wonder how I can possibly work with all the noise.
When I can’t sleep, I turn to a trick my Mom taught me – I count the sounds in the sleeping house. Last week, a welcome sound was added to the usual repertoire, the three part hoot of a Great Horned Owl. Hoo-Hoo-Hoo Hoo-o Hoo-o. It was a gentle but penetrating sound and it ruled the night. The owl hooted three times at about five minute intervals and then I fell asleep.
Not long ago I went for a walk in the grey woods and heard a sound I have heard so often before, the grating squeal of two trees rubbing together. These trees, a Balsam Fir and a Grey Birch, have tried to grow into the same space and now they reproach one another in an endless competition.
the branches of one tree grate against the bark of the other
fear of heights
~
as dizzying to look up
in the forest
as down
into the abyss
the trees taper so
~
they lean
birch
against fir
rubbed raw
where branches touch
and reach for one another
~
and sudden, wrenching sounds
a branch swings back or breaks
loosened by a squirrel
or burdened where crows complain
~
or where a warbler scolds
teacher teacher teacher
~
© Jane Tims 1996
a trail through grey woods
In our grey woods, an old trail follows the top of the slope, between the trees. It takes constant care to keep it free for walking. The spruce are old and every winter takes down a new raft of trees. My husband works at it constantly, cutting a way through the fallen logs and filling the hollows with wood chips.
When I walk there, I always find something I haven’t noticed before. Yesterday I made three discoveries:
A maple seedling sprouting in the cut surface of a maple tree felled for firewood…
A pair of bracket fungi on a fallen birch log (notice the shadows of fern leaf on the surface of the fungi)…
And various other types of fungi, sprung up after the rain…
In each case, the discovery was about hope – life from death, new growth from decay.
The woods have so many lessons to teach… I only need to slow down and look closely to learn.
slow walk in the woods
~
1.
more to woods
than a path between trees
slow pace
check perspective
~
2.
discover texture on trunk
scar and indentation
detail in the duff upset
by careless feet
~
note how light scatters
through pollen and powder
now sifts slantwise, shadow
on brackets of fungi
light from lichen
chandeliers
~
3.
slow beat and breath
match the stealth of forest, realise
branches gather rain
an hour before they weep
~
© Jane Tims 2005
cascade across the rock
Earlier this summer, in July, we visited Little Sheephouse Falls, northwest of Miramichi. The Falls are part of the watershed of the South Branch of the Big Sevogle River.
To see Little Sheephouse Falls requires a short hike through mixed woods. The trail to the Falls is very well maintained by the forest company who manages the area and was an easy walk in spite of my arthritic knees.
The woods were green with ferns and other woodland plants. My favourite of these was a little vine of Mitchella repens L. cascading across a lichened rock. Commonly known as Partidge-berry, Mitchella is a small vine with roundish opposite leaves, often found growing in shady, mossy woods. It has pinkish flowers and small red berries. The Flora I consulted says it is found where it can be free from the competition of more vigorous plants.
Mitchella repens growing across a rock in the woods
We did not go to the base of the falls, but kept to the trails navigating the escarpment. The falls are about 20 meters high, with a large pool and a cave at the base. They were a white torrent on the day we visited, making a rumbling thunder in striking contrast to the quiet woods.
Little Sheephouse Falls
Directions to Little Sheephouse Falls, and other waterfalls in New Brunswick, are contained at Nicholas Guitard’s website http://www.waterfallsnewbrunswick.ca and in his 2009 book Waterfalls of New Brunswick (see ‘books about natural spaces’).
Waterfalls are spaces to soothe the soul and inspire love for natural areas. They engage the senses… the sounds of the gurgling stream and the roar of the waterfall, the feel of cool, clean water, and the sight of water bubbling and boiling, following the contours of the landscape.
the three fates, spinning
~
1.
wound on the rock
mended by waterfall thread
~
2.
at last I touch
the water
real, wet water
(not a report or diagram
but the flavor feel and smell
of water)
~
it pours through my fingers
delivers to me
the mosses
the lichens
(the moth on the pin where she has always
wanted to be)
~
3.
the doe must feel this
as she crosses
the road-to-nowhere
when the birch and aspen enfold her
~
or the ant
as she maps the labyrinth
on the rotting morel
when she touches the ground
(blessed ground)
~
or the needles of white pine
when they find the note
split the wind into song
~
4.
the three fates
spinning
~
the waterfall
diverted by the rock
~
Published as: “the three fates, spinning”, The Antigonish Review 165, Spring 2011.
(revised)
© Jane Tims
needles of white pine...split the wind into song
horizons
Landscape is a fundamental driver in our lives. The spaces around us shape our experiences, our thoughts and our perspectives.
I was born and raised on the Alberta prairie. Although I love the woods and hills where I now live, I think my eyes are never satisfied when they seek the horizon.
When we drove across Canada in 2002, my husband, who was born in New Brunswick, was appreciative of the prairie landscape, but when we finally turned toward home, he was glad, so glad, to see the trees.
In southern Alberta, on the Trans-Canada Highway, we tried to measure the distance to the horizon. We took note of the oncoming lights and timed how long it took them to reach us on the road. One car, we estimated, was 17 kilometers away when we first saw it on the prairie horizon! On the Trans-Canada in New Brunswick, we rarely see cars more than 2 or 3 kilometers distant.
the prairie horizon of southern Alberta (2002)
What was the landscape of your childhood? Do you live in a different landscape now? How are these landscapes different and how are you different in each?
a longing for prairie
~
1.
what subtle psychoses
plague women
who grow on the prairie
and leave
to die in the forest
2.
memories a few words long
the chinook coulees at sunset the odd red of prairie mallow grasshoppers without aim
spears of foxgrass gophers beside their burrows willows by the slough
the rattle of the Texan Gate the tarnished dry of August
I want to run on the prairie
3.
I narrow my eyes at the ditches
imagine the weeds tumbling
to cover the forest with shortgrass
and sedges
the clearcut
and the barrens of blueberry
have the lie
but not the essence of prairie
4.
piled by the roadside
nine bales of hay
burst from the baler twine
left to the rain
piled three high into landscape
mountains, foothills, flatland
this last has sprouted me prairie
5.
trees form a tunnel
shut out the spaces around me
some days I can’t summon the words
the hay and the corn fields are all I have
and the hayfield shows the tines of the tiller
deep into summer
~
Published as: ‘a longing for prairie’, Whetstone Spring 1997
(revised)
© Jane Tims
a glimpse of prairie landscape in New Brunswick ... just a glimpse
edge of lake
Water is essential to my health, not only because I need it to drink. I also need to see water. Whether it’s the water of a stream, river, lake or ocean, being near water comforts and enlivens me.
I like the transitions too, the places where land and water meet – the seashore, the margins of a brook, or the shoreline of a lake. Birds and other animals love ‘edge’ – places where the food is plentiful and cover is available. We go to the lake shore to watch loons diving for fish, deer wading in the marsh grass and ducks ‘dabbling’ along the shore.
edge of lake
evening edge
~
of lake
a corner torn
from the loaf of hills
red with setting
~
faint click
sun gone
dusk and bread crumbs scattered
~
nasal chuckle
from the farther shore
arrows etched on glass
~
blue-winged teal
under wings a glimpse
of summer night
~
greedy for crust and crumbs
~
© Jane Tims 1998
evening edge of lake
trampled grass on a flat-topped hill
I change the spaces I enter, even when I enter only for a moment. I am an intruder. I am certain feet have scurried into hiding just as I arrive. Sounds have ceased. Scents and tastes have been altered.
Once in a while, my difference can be disguised. I can enter before the space can know I am there. If I am quiet, if I walk softly, some agent will help me pass through the veil and remain unnoticed, just long enough to see and hear and taste the true essence of the place. Often, the generous agent is the wind.
It was a favorite hike, an old cart track winding up the side of a dome-shaped hill in the Elkwater Lake area of the Cypress Hills in southern Alberta. The hill had a flat top and a thick bristle of conifers along the sides. On the flat top was a fescue grass meadow, a bit of prairie perched a layer above the mixed grasslands.
a hill at Elkwater Lake ... coniferous woods and grassland on the same hill
The track was not much more than two ruts, worn into the grass. It curved up the side of the hill, so the approach was gentle, gradual. Then, abruptly, the hilltop. If the wind was right, I could surprise the deer. They yarded there, grazing the grasses, etching paths into the meadow.
If the wind stayed in my favor, the deer would linger, chewing their cuds, watching me, but not registering my difference. As long as the wind blew I could watch, but if it settled, my scent would reach the deer. They would lift their heads and tails and be off in a few zigzag bounds.
deer yard
on a flat-topped hill
~
1.
below the hill is the distant prairie
speargrass and grama grass
and the sweetgrass hills of Montana
~
the grass at my feet is different
fescues of the Cypress Hills
flat-topped remnants of the Great Plateau
untouched by glacier scour
~
2.
bless the wind
it sorts the grasses
lifts each hair
ruffles the limp and fine
~
wind nudges the stubble
the artist’s bristle
the tail hairs of the doe
the chop of fresh grass
~
her gentle cud
her watchful eyes
wind in the spokes
of the mule deer wheel
~
the trampled paths
a game of fox and geese
or the part teased by wind
into sun-blond hair
~
3.
if the wind takes a breath
if the grass or the hair
settles on the shoulder
of the hill
she runs!
~
seeks the safety
of the downslope
downwind
trees
~
4.
fescue
curious on this flat-topped hill
its rightful place
the ancient prairie
~
Published as: “deer yard on a flat-topped hill”, 2010, Canadian Stories 13 (76)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
deer on the grasslands of Nebraska (2002)
deep waters – Clear Lake
As a result of my work, I have been privileged to see some remote, very special places in New Brunswick.
One of these is Clear Lake, a pristine lake in the south west area of the province. To reach Clear Lake, we canoed across Sparks Lake and made the short portage from Sparks to Clear. The portage crosses the narrow divide between two watersheds – Sparks Lake eventually flows into the Magaguadavic River, while Clear Lake is part of the Pocologan River system.
topographic map showing Clear Lake, Horseback Lake and Sparks Lake
Clear Lake is a deep lake with remarkably clear water. Lake depth measurements from the New Brunswick Aquatic Data Warehouse show the maximum measured depth to be 29.6 meters (97 feet), although deeper depths have been recorded. Stones on the bottom of the lake look like they are only centimetres away, but when you put your hand into the water, you quickly realise they are far out of reach.
standing beside Horseback Lake, a small lake just west of Clear Lake, October 1992 (photo by J. O'K.)
Clear Lake
~
behind us
dry leaves settle
waves on Sparks and Redrock
~
Clear Lake
bottle blue
silences our chatter
reeds and aluminium
whisper
~
we glide
~
between islands
group of seven trees
flung southward
quartz cobbles
rim the shore
dark Porcupine
bristles with conifers
tangled in the surface
plunge eighteen fathoms
to a cove
gathered in arms
of granite and pine
a cabin perched green
shadows peering
over the edge
~
sudden and silent
sunken logs
caressed by crescent suns
cast through ripples
only a touch away
~
through the mirror
shattered
numb fingers search
down
down
~
essence always
out of reach
~
dissolved
in the clear lake
~
Published as: “Clear Lake”, 1999, River Revue 5
(revised)
© Jane Tims
the location of our picnic table
Back in our grey woods is a place we don’t visit regularly any more. Our picnic table is there, in a mossy area among mature spruce and fir, at the top of a slope. It overlooks a wet spot in the woods. In the spring the wet area becomes an ephemeral stream, and a series of vernal pools among the mosses and ferns.
down-slope of the picnic table is a ferny area with an ephemeral stream... the dark areas in the photo are pools of water
Once, almost 28 years ago, the space was perfect for our new picnic table. The table was given to my newborn son by his Great-Aunt Jane and we took considerable care in choosing its location.
our picnic table in the woods
In years past, we took a picnic lunch there regularly. Sometimes I went there to write.
Today I pass the table when I follow the path through the woods, but I haven’t stopped to eat a picnic there in years. Another family has taken over, probably of Groundhogs (Marmota monax). They have built a labyrinth of burrows among the tree roots in the soft soil of the slope. Where each burrow exits is a mound, the remains of deep-earth excavation. One of the six burrow openings is larger than the others. My reading tells me this complex of burrows and exits provides quick escape from predators, a place to store food, and a place to hibernate.
the main entrance to the burrows, under the roots of a fir
Once this place was the ideal location for our new picnic table and our family picnics. Now the same site is perfect habitat for the Groundhog family.
concerning the location
of our new picnic table
~
share a meal with the unknown
to make it your friend
~
we find a clearing
near the path
where the sun will shine at noon
where we will not have to cut the trees
where the neighbours’ voices
and the passing cars
are quiet
~
we load the picnic table
into the cart
haul it through the woods
behind the Yamaha
~
we eat peanut butter sandwiches
and applesauce
drink cola
and sunshine
~
we laugh
make friends with the woods
and with each other
~
© Jane Tims 1983
hidden in the hollow heart of an oak
Hollow trees create mysterious spaces in the woods.
When I was young, a hollow in a tree was a secret hiding place for treasures, and one of my favourite books was a Nancy Drew mystery – “The Message in the Hollow Oak”. In the story, a hollow tree is used as a secret mailbox between long lost lovers.
- Carolyn Keene 1935 The Message in the Hollow Oak (a later edition, probably around 1965)
a hollow log in the woods
Cavities are usually found in mature trees. Their importance as habitat is a good reason for protecting older, mature trees in the woodlot. When my son was young, we made wooden signs saying “DEN TREE” for the older hollow trees in our woods, so we would remember not to cut them down.
Do you know a hollow tree and would you reach into the cavity to retrieve a letter???
requesting the favour of a reply
~
these leafless trees
brush against
a linen sky
ink strokes
on rice paper
letters
penned at midnight
~
hidden in the hollow
heart of an oak
afraid to reach in
to feel only
curls of bark
desiccated leaves
~
these trees
all seem the same
empty envelopes
parchment ghosts
~
branches tangled
messages
lost
~
black spruce scribbled on sky
~
Published as: ‘an answer in silence’, Spring 1995, The Cormorant XI (2)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
along the country road #3
A few years ago, I became interested in pressing flowers as a craft. I discovered a secret – one of the best flowers to press is Queen Anne’s Lace. Laid out on the page, it has the look of intricate crochet.
Queen Anne’s Lace, also called wild carrot, devil’s-plague, and carotte sauvage, is a tall weed with an umbrella-like cluster of lacy white flowers. The flowers are an umbel, meaning that the individual flowers all radiate from the same point on the stem to form a head. The flower is commonly seen in hayfields and waste places, and along roadsides.
Queen Anne's Lace (Daucus carota L.)
Daucus is the ancient Greek name for carrot; carota is the old generic name for carrot.
Don’t let the name ‘carrot’ fool you, as the roots are said to be somewhat poisonous. Also, beware of look-alikes. There are many flowers that can be described as a ‘white umbel’, some of them poisonous to the touch. Use an identification guide before you investigate too closely!
like snowflakes in summer
Queen Anne’s Lace
Daucus carota L.
wild carrot
inedible
no colour
unsuitable
as a vegetable
(poison probable)
white lace
three dimensional
tatted for Anne
‘Not Suitable’
for a Queen
(too usual)
umbrella
non-functional
(leaky)
unsuitable
for the rain
(or even drizzle)
in moonlight
unforgettable
common words
unsuitable
devil’s-plague?
ethereal!
Published as: ‘Queen Anne’s Lace’, Winter 1993, The Antigonish Review 92:80-81.
(revised)
© Jane Tims
