What I Got

This winter, man. This winter. The challenge has been to focus on what I have, not what's missing. 

Bought myself a peppermint-striped rose to offset the greenhouse blahs. You can't ask for flowers, but you can go out and get 'em yourself.  If I can keep it going until spring it'll be a real feat. Candy striped, and candy for spider mites, too.

The yard has been full of blue jays all winter long. Maybe not the blue jay I need to see, but I have to say it helps a lot to be in their company all day long. It has effected a sort of desensitization which I sorely needed. I see so many jays every day it's impossible to keep expecting one of them will be Jemima. I have surrendered to the void, and now I enjoy jays almost like anyone else does, which is to say like someone who isn't completely obsessed with them. Until this winter, I never realized what a huge component of my intense focus is obsession.  Watching that. But obsession is a powerful motivator. It would be hard to write a decent book about one blue jay unless you were a bit obsessed. 

 I call this member of the 13 Canucks "Frost." As in Robert. Can you see why I call it that?

Frost has snazzy white  feathers just above the bill, on its "front." A marker like this is gold. I've felt quite at sea with this new group of jays, but seeing one I can pick out and identify helps so much to tell me that yes, it's a member of the same group that's been here since Christmas. The group that isn't Jemima's.

February 5 was sunny. I couldn't stay inside, even though cold air makes me cough. I took off for Dean's Fork. Debated about whether to bring the big rig, with all the ice and snow and the possibility of falling on it. Brought it and never took a decent photo. Oh well. There are plenty of times I bring it and get something awesome. I spooked up a beautiful large owl, watched it fly, big and blunt-headed, waay down through the trees. It gave a hook to the left and the upward swoop that meant it was going to land.  Barred or great horned? How to tell?  I couldn't see it at all, but I fixed my binoculars on the last place I'd seen it and settled down to wait for a glimpse.  Look hard where it's hardest to look. Along comes a curious red-tailed hawk, bombing right into the section of woods where I thought the owl had gone. Oh!! The owl revealed itself, spreading its wings like a displaying turkey. It gave a querulous "Whooooaaaaa???" Its head swiveled--big dark eyes. It was a barred owl! I breathed a prayer of thanks to the redtail who'd blown its cover. It had been years since I'd seen a barred owl like that. My photos are a mess of twigs and haze. Never mind. It filled my heart and my eyes.

This day, the sky took center stage. It was Nevada blue, Colorado blue, New Mexico blue. It was the blue of a western bluebird, with some red in it, tending toward ultramarine. The air was rinsed clean. It took my breath away. That doesn't happen much in Ohio in winter. Gray flannel is the rule.

I found a little patch of mountain laurel atop this sandstone outcrop. That doesn't happen much around here, either.

I can hardly believe it, but I'm starting to see grouse again. They've been gone for more than 15 years. A beautiful red-morph grouse came tiptoeing up alongside me as I descended into Dean's Fork, and I was so flabbergasted I couldn't even raise my camera. But I did take a photo of his last two tracks before he whirred off like a warm brown football down into the draw. Oh, joy. To have grouse around again--it's too good to be true. There are some things you have to have faith will come back, some things you must wait for. 

The negative spaces of a winter creek. Water and ice are such free-handed artists. 

The play of sky blue on warm tree tones, the violet shadows on snow.

The sycamores, leaning impossibly out over the creek, throwing out roots to catch themselves in slow-motion. As big as sycamores get, wouldn't it make sense to root yourself farther back on the bank? But a tree doesn't have a choice. It takes root where it takes root, then deals with the consequences of cut banks and underwash, of having the rug pulled out from under it with every spring flood. I feel you, sycamores. 

Perhaps the thing that helps most about getting out is having to climb steep hills. 

I feel my heart pumping, feel my blood being cleansed of the sluggishness that sets in when you sit and think too much.

Soon enough, the sun went back to bed, and it rained and rained. The ground was so cold that ice formed on everything. 

The land took on a peculiar glazed look, the pines drooping with its weight.

At dusk, these deer wandered through a rosy wonderland. 

Worth clicking on these photos to enlarge them. I think this is Jolene and her band, but they're so wet it's hard to tell.

The ice has stayed for two days, stubborn and resolute. I've asked the sun for help and get nothing.

I love the textures of this unruly meadow. There's so much wood in it, but that gives it color, texture and life.

All day long, I've been watching for the tired sun to peek out from under the covers. I finally got perhaps ten seconds' worth, just enough to skid outside and grab a shot. I'll take it. Click on this one. There is glory out there for the finding, if you don't mind that it only lasts a few seconds.

Carry on, February. The woodcocks are on their way.