Prepare for the Coming Season

This chipmunk lives in our rock walls, one of many small animals who cohabit this property.  

As we prepare for winter, bring in outdoor furniture, wrap fragile shrubs, trim branches, mulch leaves, we let the chipmunks and squirrels harvest anything they want and need from our yard. They've cleaned off the grapes and are gathering rowan berries, stag-horn sumac cones, acorns, evergreen cones, and barberry bush fruits.

This little fellow's pouches are swollen with loot, to stock his larder for the long cold months ahead. Good for him!

Chipmunk Chatter

This chipmunk lives in our rock wall and comes out to chatter and hunt for food, or sometimes just to sun.  He usually keeps a safe distance, but he popped out of a hole near the deck and didn't notice we were sitting there.  He is one of many who co-habit this property with us.  We were content to see him close enough to capture a good photo.

Summer Whine

Summer Whine

Breathe in lavender

and roses, impossible

with a summer cold.

Sun kisses my skin;

comfort, caress and healing

for fever and ache.

Summer day singing,

leaves chat with the breeze.  I cough,

cough as chipmunks chirr.

I want to exchange:

tissues, lozenges and sneezes

for margaritas.

I want to breathe in summer,

be well and be well.

This is not an earth-moving poem but one which is reflective of my whiny state, of having a summer cold for the second time this summer.   I dream of being well again and enjoying the sights, sounds, tastes and smells of summer, and of writing better when my head is clear.

Chipmunk

Chipmunk

Striped squirrel scampering,

chipping over the ground,

gathering grains and nuts,

berries, worms and birds’ eggs,

to cache in your burrow,

beneath my yard.   Cheek pouches

full of harvest and hoard.

You shy secret-seedling

spreader, racing stripes

a blur, no wonder you

must sleep for half the day,

hidden in your tidy

tunnel, resting…from the

sowing of our future.

Notes:  Chipmunks fulfill essential functions in woodland ecosystems.  Their activities harvesting and hoarding tree seeds play an integral role in seedling establishment.  They consume fungi in symbiotic relationships with trees and are a means of dispersal for spores of subterranean truffles.

Photo is mine.

Memories of My Visit

Memories of My Visit

It’s Sunday, sunny with a chill wind.  The only way I can be comfortable sitting outside is to find a sheltered spot in direct sunlight.  Nearby a hefty grey squirrel seems to be thinking the same thing.  He munches on his pine cone aware that I am here but apparently unafraid, as we share this pool of sunshine.  He knows he can run faster than I, escape, if need be.

Sitting on a wooden storage box on the front porch, I'm looking across the street at a modern, creamy yellow house.  It appears to have been built to mimic the stateliness of this home.  The new house doesn’t work and looks oddly out-of-place in this older neighbourhood of Port Washington.  There is something solid, comforting, time worn about this 1896 house that nothing newer can duplicate. 

The cement porch hugs two sides of this massive home, providing shelter and welcome; for me, a secluded place in which to write. The grey squirrel runs off after finishing his cone, to find another or to chase the chipmunk that chatters and scolds in the side yard.  A scent of pine balsam carries on the mounting breeze.

The Port Washington area of Long Island, New York is farther south than where I live in New Brunswick, Canada.  Consequently here, the vegetation is still lush and green belying the cooler breezes and chillier nights that approach and have already touched our trees at home with sizzling colours.

My hooded sweatshirt isn’t cutting the cold from the stiffening wind so I will have to move soon.  The wind blows through me, picking and tossing stray leaves, shed from the tender shrubbery.  I need to shift to a warmer seat, seek somewhere more protected than this wooden box on the porch.

This early Sunday morning is peaceful, quiet, except for the rising wind rustling through the five-story maples that surround this house, breathing through the pines with sighs like waves on sand.  At first totally embraced by sun, now only my legs are warm.  I can feel heat on my jeans, warmth on my shoes.  But the wind carries thoughts of ice and my sunlit pool is shrinking.

A thin woman, in a tiny black tank top and matching spandex shorts, jogs by the front of the house; her dog is the same crinkly blond colour as her hair.  The pat, pat of her sneakers keeps time with the clack, clack of her dog’s toenails on the pavement.  I shiver as I watch her.

Yes, running is one way to keep warm.  But I want to write, so I am up now, searching for another sheltered spot of autumn sunlight, in which to further enjoy the last of summer, in this magical old house.

All photos are mine unless otherwise noted.

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