In the soft heart of June

 

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June whispers in my ear, beckoning me to stop and drink her in.

Her discordant song echoes in layers, defying the mathematics of music.
What is this confused passion?
This abstraction — perfectly balanced?
The treble of the gnat,
The bass of the bullfrog,
The trill whistle of the bird,
Never a more tangled rhythm beats in the soft heart of June.

Each creature moves to the drumbeat of the Flower Child,
who’s finest garb is strewn about her messy room.
The amber and cerulean bluebird stands guard outside his nest, while his bride arranges her cradle.
The hummingbird skillfully hovers, his wings beating a buzz, before he jets off to fight for his place in the sky.
The turtle lazes in the warmth of the sun, atop a fallen tree, while the dragonfly jettisons across the water.
June’s energy is endless and her laughter rings through the trees.

Paintbrush in hand, she strokes the lightest of light.
Her hand does not shy from the darkness of night.
Her skies churn charcoal grey and electric blue,
and palette knives scoop white upon white.
Her petals scream color,
Her fireflies ignite,
A climax of wonder, the longest day of light.

June brushes soft against my skin.
I stop, quiet, and give myself to her.
Resigned, there are no words fit to describe her wild beauty.
She spins, slowly, in pirouette,
Then, on this, the first day of summer,
I watch her laugh as she begins to dance away.

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Photo by Amy Treasure

A tufted titmouse good morning to you…

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There is a small wooden box full of seed that sits on the narrow brick ledge just outside my window. This little guy likes to hop down inside the box to eat. He frequently pops his head up to keep an eye out for predators. He is not a bit afraid as he sees me get up from my chair or reach for things so very near him. He makes me smile.

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The Tufted Titmouse

“A little gray bird with an echoing voice, the Tufted Titmouse is common in eastern deciduous forests and a frequent visitor to feeders. The large black eyes, small, round bill, and brushy crest gives these birds a quiet but eager expression that matches the way they flit through canopies, hang from twig-ends, and drop in to bird feeders. When a titmouse finds a large seed, you’ll see it carry the prize to a perch and crack it with sharp whacks of its stout bill.

Tufted Titmice hoard food in fall and winter, a behavior they share with many of their relatives, including the chickadees and tits. Titmice take advantage of a bird feeder’s bounty by storing many of the seeds they get. Usually, the storage sites are within 130 feet of the feeder. The birds take only one seed per trip and usually shell the seeds before hiding them.

Tufted Titmice nest in tree holes (and nest boxes), but they can’t excavate their own nest cavities. Instead, they use natural holes and cavities left by woodpeckers. These species’ dependence on dead wood for their homes is one reason why it’s important to allow dead trees to remain in forests rather than cutting them down.

Tufted Titmice often line the inner cup of their nest with hair, sometimes plucked directly from living animals. The list of hair types identified from old nests includes raccoons, opossums, mice, woodchucks, squirrels, rabbits, livestock, pets, and even humans.

The oldest known wild Tufted Titmouse lived to be 13 years 3 months old.”

The Cornell Lab of Ornithology
http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/tufted_titmouse/lifehistory

Just outside the window…

 

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In the early morning hours, when the only sound is the quiet hum of the house, I open the window over my desk and wrap myself a little more tightly into my robe. The soft, cool breeze carries in a swirl of noise.

What’s left of the morning rain drips off the roof, tap, tap, tapping on the wooden porch beneath my window. Morning tunes, sung in all octaves, fill the air with layers of asymmetric artistry. Busy chickadees flutter and flap as they dart back and forth with bits of stuff for their nests. One brave, little fellow lands on the sill right in from of me- curiously seeking fuzzy treasure.

The grass is soggy and bright green. Robins land and bounce, cocking their heads as if to listen for the worms they spot and wriggle out of the soft ground.

Spring has finally swept over the land.

There are many days when the sky seems to boil and dark clouds roll; days when torrential rain forces the creeks to overflow, and large pools of water flood the low places in the terrain. Under the mud and muck, new life pulsates with wild energy.

A careful eye will see plants beginning to make their rhythmic rise from the soil. Finally, after a long, frozen winter in the midwest, gardens are being cleared and planted, and farmers are waiting for the perfect day to till and seed.

With the faithful entrance of Spring comes the annual invitation to join in the rhythm. A new day to dig, a new day to seed, a new day to water. A new day to release that which has passed, so that it can fortify that which is to come. A new day to work for the promise of a reaping.

Just outside the winter-stained window, there’s a noise that’s louder that the drone of this world; a ringing more urgent than the constant ping of the cell phone.

There is an offer to take part in a story so much more exciting than the one portrayed on screen.
It’s organic, it’s ancient, and it calls to our souls.
Arise and awaken, open a window and listen for the sound… new life is at hand.