Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Still Harassing the Fish

If I was almost 8 years old and hauling in fish like these on my kiddie pole....no wonder Willow loves to fish.

Large mouth Bass first of 6 fish

Willow 609

Large mouth Bass second fish


She reeled in four bass off the dam and kept me hopping. I couldn't get my hands dry enough to roll a cigarette what with her catching them and needing re-worming. She also got snagged in the trees overhead several times, and I did say a silent thank you to last year's tree-trimmer since this is usually not a problem.

Then I realized I had more space between her swivel and bobber than usual, since I had to re-bobber her today after the mackerel trip. So she had more line to snag in the trees. Still, we were lucky that I managed to pull in every one enough to rip off the leaves or twigs and we didn't lose any gear to the trees today.

Then we moved back to the cove.

Pumkinseed 5th of 6 fish

Willow 609

The Firebird changed his mind and showed up, pole in hand, right after this last fish was caught, and reeled in two small, 6-8 inch Bass.

Willow ended up racing back to the garden to dig more worms, and caught one more Pumkinseed after the Firebird gave up and went home.

Willow fed the last of the worm bits to her friends, the baby pumpkinseeds, that live near the shore in the weeds. Fun to watch them come out and nibble the worm bits. Next thing she will be naming them all. :-X


I couldn't resist adding one more of my Mother's Day Rose, a gift from the Boy Who Lived in the Tree


Friday, June 26, 2009

Formal and Informal-Roses



Mourning the Loss of Two Cultural Icons

What young woman didn't want to look like Farrah Fawcett? What young man didn't want Farrah Fawcett?

And which 20 some old, didn't want to DANCE like Michael Jackson?

Moon walk in Peace.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Rainy June

Pond Full

Dam Full

Spotted Tiger Moth
Halisidota maculata

Escape of the Turkey Fledgling

Monday, June 22, 2009

Another Rainy Day-means....

You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with
his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent
bell? What is it waiting for?
I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms?
Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal,
and I reply by describing
how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers,
which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides?
Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on
the crystal architecture
of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now?
You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean
The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks?
The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out
in the deep places like a thread in the water?

I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its
jewel boxes
is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure,
and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the
hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light
and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall
from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.

I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead
of human eyes, dead in those darknesses,
of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes
on the timid globe of an orange.

I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.

Pablo Neruda

Clenched Soul
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

Pablo Neruda

Asking For Roses
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

Robert Frost

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Hungry Mouths

Barn Swallow nest at S's

Barn Swallow adults

Large-mouthed Bass
Willow's first of six fish today

Large-mouthed Bass
Firebird first of three fish today

Willow's pickerel

Willow's Yellow Perch
Willow 609

Friday, June 19, 2009




Transcribed by Aaron Myer


The throstle he roused him at fall of eve
And said to the owlet grey,
"Lo, brother, look through the dusky wood
And tell who comes this way."

The owlet stirred on the swaying bough
Of the slender birchen-tree:
"And seest thou not the minstrel-wight
A-roaming along the lea?"

"And what of the voice that comes with him,
The voice that sighs and sings?"
"Oh, that's the sound of the harp he bears
As the wind blows over the strings."

"And is it for love of a fair young maid
That his cheek is pale and wan?"
"Ay, a maid I wis, but never a kiss
Will she lay on the lips of man.

"He must sit all day at the ale-house door
Amid the talk o' the town,
With a merry stave for knight and knave
And a jest for the staring clown.

"But when bells are rung and songs are sung
And all men lie and sleep,
The merry minstrel forth must fare
His secret tryst to keep.

"The merry minstrel forth must fare,
All in the twilight dim,
To woo the queen o' Fairyland
That's cast a spell on him.

"Oh her form's the form of the lily-white
That sways to the breeze, and her breath
Is the scent o' the thyme and the blowing furze
And the honey that's stored in the heath.

"And her dark eyes' beam is the wavering
On the water that's wan to see
When the evening star hangs faint and far
Above the birchen-tree.

"And wouldst thou learn her secret lore,
Go, read the magic rune
That the writhen boughs of the thorn-tree
O' nights across the moon."

"And what's the guerdon he shall gain
By grace of the Fairy-queen?"
"Oh, a hope that's lost and a love that's
And tears and toil and tene,

"And feet astray in the paths of day,
And a song that cannot be sung---
For elfin music is wind and breath
When the matin-bell is rung.

"For the cock crows shrill, and the dew lines
And the faint stars die, withdrawn;
And elfin gold is withered leaves
At the coming of the dawn."


Luna Moth


Monday, June 15, 2009

Snapping Turtle

Remove Formatting from selectionTree609

Willow was slightly appeased to find this female snapping turtle laying eggs roadside this afternoon. Earlier she had missed the fawn and almost cried.

Her brother and I had taken the goats for a walk, and Willow didn't want to go. The Firebird went ahead into the marsh and I heard him say, "A Fawn!!! A fawn!! Look, look!"

And there was a tiny spotted white tailed deer fawn walking away from the outskirts of our group. That's all the look I needed, I told him we needed to get out of there fast and quickly headed back up hill with the goat herd following. Except Nic of course, he has to lag behind and stuff himself.

Three steps into the woods I glanced down and there were my pruners Willow lost last year at wreath season. Right in plain view on top of a knoll. I knew they would turn up eventually, even though we had searched in vain on several occasions. My big loppers have been lost in the woods two or three times for months and then suddenly been found.

Anyhow, I wanted to leave the fawn well alone so Mom would come back for it. I was alarmed to see it walking, as they usually bed down during the day, so we must have really disturbed things. We made the best of it and went well away. I don't think it should be too bad, since we regularly take the goats in that area and our scent must be there.

Last year I had taken photos of a fawn bedded down and got quite close while it held stock still. That was in the same area, but further downstream where we rarely go. So, in a way I was happy to see the fawn there in the one spot we frequent, as to me it was a sign we haven't chased the wildlife away with our walks.

The clippers were a lucky find; when Willow found out about the fawn that she missed, she looked about ready to cry, and I hauled the clippers out of my back pocket and held them up triumphantly. That brought a smile to her face and changed the subject.

An ugly old snapper is no match for a beautiful little spotted fawn, but that's what you get tonight.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Another Rainy Day=more poetry


I’m at the dock, practicing the form
Flying Crane, Traveling East Over the Ocean,
when I see that the fish are gathering
below me— turquoise-tailed sunfish,
open-mouthed bass— all turned toward me,
gathering out of the weeds, the ribbons
and thickets of grass. I imagine expectancy
in their dappled finning, fanned scholars
of energy, as I salute the sun, give back
to the green world my fears.
The strike of the northern pike, called up
from the planked shadows, scatters us all;
though we return, minus one, for the still passage
called Observing the Full Moon, and my bow.

Robin Chapman

A Bottle And Friend

There's nane that's blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.

Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.

Robert Burns

Scrambled eggs and whiskey
Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren’t we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick, and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don’t say a word,
don’t tell a soul, they wouldn’t
understand, they couldn’t, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.

Hayden Carruth

Friday, June 12, 2009

More Fishing

Here's what Willow reeled in on the first cast-that large mouthed bass that's been lurking around the log:

Willow 609
Willow 609

My palm is at least 4 inches wide,so this fish was well over a foot in length.

Then she reeled in this large Pumpkinseed:

And then snagged this Yellow Perch. This fish felt very rough like sandpaper, as I would imagine a shark would feel.

This fish must have been almost a foot long

Willow was very excited by now, and hoped to catch a pickerel to round out the variety, but she ran out of worms.

Thursday, June 11, 2009


By friendship you mean the greatest love, the greatest usefulness, the most open communication, the noblest sufferings, the severest truth, the heartiest counsel, and the greatest union of minds of which brave men and women are capable.

Jeremy Taylor


Every man has his chain and clog, only it is looser and lighter to one than to another; and he is more at ease who takes it up and carries it than he who drags it.


Wednesday, June 10, 2009






Friday, June 5, 2009

Rockland Harbor

We finally planned enough time for a walk all the way out to the lighthouse on the breakwater.

These two adult and one immature herring gulls were looking back towards Rockland at the beginning of the breakwater.

We enjoyed watching these sailboats as they passed the lighthouse into the harbor.

Then they were overtaken by this coat guard cutter, but it kept going and didn't pull them over.

Here is the view looking back from the lighthouse towards Camden Hills.

The breakwater is 7/8 of a mile in length.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

American Toad

Bufo amercaniis


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Tuesday dusk

Tuesday, June 2, 2009


Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.

Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!
Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city.

Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.

You, man, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.

It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
Hour that is mine from among them all!
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.

Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.

Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude.

Who are you, who are you?

Pablo Neruda

Monday, June 1, 2009

Air France

My thoughts and prayers go out to the families and friends of the passengers and crew on the missing Air France flight 447.