Thursday, October 21, 2021

Thoughtful Thursday: Karma


[This female Black Widow was in my house at the edge of the Pine Barrens. I released her outside. Karma is everything.]

"Never wound what you can’t kill."




Thursday, October 14, 2021

Thoughtful Thursday: Linus and Charlie Brown

[Linus and Charlie Brown live under the shed at my new digs. I often relate to their namesakes' conversations at the brick wall, like the one below.]



Wednesday, April 21, 2021

Thoughtful Thursday: Speed


[Click play for video, wait for the audio, including the sound of snail footsteps. . . (try the web view if it doesn't show on your device.)]

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

― Lao Tzu

Monday, April 19, 2021

Glass and Snow

[Snowy Egret with "glass" eel, Forsythe NWR, NJ April, 2021. The red facial skin is a trait of high breeding plumage for the egret, but the eel is the real story. Click to enlarge.]

Egrets are gorgeous, but the silver shimmer in this Snowy Egret's bill is another miracle of nature.

Egrets eat fish, and American eels are fish, but what a fish they are. Eels flip the famous anadromous lifestyle of salmon on its head. They are catadromous, growing up in freshwater and returning to the sea to spawn. This glass ribbon hatched from egg to a larvae in the Sargasso Sea. Now where the hek is that? I'll save you the trouble:


So there it began as an egg in this confluence of oceanic currents, with maybe 4 million others from the same mom eel slightly less than a year ago (this makes my estimate of the total number of eel eggs laid each year as exactly one zillion). Then it hatched into a larvae and free-floated to the Jersey shore. Most of its brothers and sisters got themselves eaten, but this one metamorphosed into its glassy self and was looking forward to several years of growing up somewhere upstream of the west pool outfall at Forsythe NWR, where it's already amazing journey ended in the egret's bill. Had it survived, it would have grown to maybe 30" in freshwater before it returned the Atlantic's Sargasso to continue  the cycle.




Thursday, January 14, 2021

Thoughtful Thursday: The Sky on Their Backs

"In the midst of the poplar that stands by our door,
we planted a bluebird box. . .

". . . And we hoped before the summer was o'er
A transient pair to coax.

One warm summer's day the bluebirds came
And lighted on our tree,
But at first the wand'rers were not so tame
But they were afraid of me.

They seemed to come from the distant south,
Just over the Walden wood,
And they skimmed it along with open mouth
Close by where the bellows stood.

Warbling they swept round the distant cliff,
And they warbled it over the lea,
And over the blacksmith's shop in a jiff
Did they come warbling to me.

They came and sat on the box's top
Without looking into the hole,
And only from this side to that did they hop,
As 'twere a common well-pole.

Methinks I had never seen them before,
Nor indeed had they seen me,
Till I chanced to stand by our back door,
And they came to the poplar tree.

In course of time they built their nest
And reared a happy brood,
And every morn they piped their best
As they flew away to the wood.

Thus wore the summer hours away
To the bluebirds and to me,
And every hour was a summer's day,
So pleasantly lived we.

They were a world within themselves,
And I a world in me,
Up in the tree—the little elves—
With their callow family.

One morn the wind blowed cold and strong,
And the leaves when whirling away;
The birds prepared for their journey long
That raw and gusty day.

Boreas came blust'ring down from the north,
And ruffled their azure smocks,
So they launched them forth, though somewhat loth,
By way of the old Cliff rocks.

Meanwhile the earth jogged steadily on
In her mantle of purest white,
And anon another spring was born
When winter was vanished quite.

And I wandered forth o'er the steamy earth,
And gazed at the mellow sky,
But never before from the hour of my birth
Had I wandered so thoughtfully.

For never before was the earth so still,
And never so mild was the sky,
The river, the fields, the woods, and the hill,
Seemed to heave an audible sigh.

I felt that the heavens were all around,
And the earth was all below,
As when in the ears there rushes a sound
Which thrills you from top to toe.

I dreamed that I was a waking thought—
A something I hardly knew—
Not a solid piece, nor an empty nought,
But a drop of morning dew.

'Twas the world and I at a game of bo-peep,
As a man would dodge his shadow,
An idea becalmed in eternity's deep—
'Tween Lima and Segraddo.

"Anon a faintly warbled note
From out the azure deep,
Into my ears did gently float
As is the approach of sleep.

It thrilled but startled not my soul;
Across my mind strange mem'ries gleamed,
As often distant scenes unroll
When we have lately dreamed

The bluebird had come from the distant South
To his box in the poplar tree,
And he opened wide his slender mouth,
On purpose to sing to me."

-Henry David Thoreau