The Spring to Come

A picture from the archives---last year on March 21st the Magnolia was in full bloom. This year the tree isn't even thinking blossoms on March 29.

Have a wonderful Easter and hopefully Spring will come any day now.

It's Not the Destination...

There’s a path that leads to nowhere

In a meadow that I know,

Where an inland island rises 

And the stream is still and slow;

There it wanders under willows

And beneath the silver green

Of the birches’ silent shadows

Where the early violets lean.

Other pathways lead to Somewhere,

But the one I love so well

Had no end and no beginning

Just the beauty of the dell,

Just the windflowers and the lilies

Yellow striped as adder’s tongue,

Seem to satisfy my pathway

As it winds their sweets among.

There I go to meet the Springtime,

When the meadow is aglow,

Marigolds amid the marshes,

And the stream is still and slow.

There I find my fair oasis,

And with care-free feet I tread

For the pathway leads to Nowhere,

And the blue is overhead!

All the ways that lead to Somewhere

Echo with the hurrying feet 

Of the Struggling and the Striving,

But the way I find so sweet

Bids me dream and bids me linger,

Joy and Beauty are its goal,

On the path that leads to Nowhere

I have sometimes found my soul!

The Path that Leads to Nowhere by 

Corrine Roosevelt Robinson

Over an Indiana Wetland

Over an Indiana wetland hundreds of birds fly in February and March. How do they keep from flying into each other? Where is the leader to this chaos?

Success

After watching this pair of swans fail at a nest year after year, it was nice to see them finally succeed. In the years that followed they had as many as 7 signets   in one year. Then one year they didn't return.

Wet Nests

These geese must be new at nests. Side by side they sat in the middle of the bog at Indiana Dunes with barely an inch above the water line. This weekend's snow will surely wash out the nests and hopefully they'll learn to do better next time.

I've seen Swans do the same thing---with a  drowned out nest or two but eventually come back and have a successful nest with as much as seven signets.

Spring---back on schedule

Spring of 2012; this picture is from last year's March 25. Spring was way ahead of schedule last year and alarmingly so. This year's tree have hardly a bud on them---a good indication that we may not have the horrible apple harvest we had last year with the incredibly horrible prices we had. I would like to see spring come soon, but, unlike previous years, I'm really glad that spring is back on its old schedule. I'll wait patiently for the spring.

Tough Guy

Possums are wanderers, rarely staying in one place twice. And this one was wandering through an Indiana wetland when it came out of a patch of weeds and met up with me.

Is that determination in his face or surprise? How did it lose that nip of ear? The possum wandered a bit, pretending I did not exist all the while eyeing me out of the corner of its eye. And then it headed off in no particular hurry.

I'm Watching You

Some days conditions come together for perfect photography of dragonflies. Such was the day when I felt these eyes looking at me. There were hundreds of dragonflies, lazily enjoying a wonderful spring day shortly after the leaves came to the trees.

This wasn't the only dragonfly I captured that lovely spring day, but this was the only dragonfly that was paying much attention to me.

Lonely Wandering

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Woodsworth

Big Sky

Sunrise over the Little Calumet River in Gary.

Monday Warm Up

This photo is from March 18, 2012---again, what a difference a year makes! After days of eighty degree temps in early March the wildflowers were way ahead of the times compared to this dreary, damp, and cold March of 2013.  

Mallard

Give me a spring day, a sky of blue, a wetland, and Mallards over head---heaven!

Robbins Bobbin

The Robbins were out in full force this morning---there were 3 times the amount in the picture along this one hill. Reminded me of a song Mom loved to sing:

When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob-Bob Bobbin' Along 

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' along, along 

There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' his old sweet song 

Wake up, wake up you sleepy head 

Get up, get out of your bed 

Cheer up, cheer up the sun is red 

Live, love, laugh and be happy 

What if I were blue, now I'm walking through, walking through the fields of flowers 

Rain may glisten but still I listen for hours and hours 

I'm just a kid again doing what I did again, singing a song 

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' along 

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' 

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' along 

There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' 

There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts a throbbin' his old sweet song 

Wake up, wake up you sleepy head 

Why don't you get up, get up, get out of bed, cheer up 

Live, love, laugh and be happy 

What if I were blue, now I'm walking through fields of flowers 

Rain may glisten but still I listen for hours and hours 

I'm just a kid again, doing what I did again, singing a song 

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' 

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' along 

Along, along, along, along, along.

Harry Woods 

The Joyful Sounds of Spring

There is  no more joyful a sound than the woods in March as the birds return! A couple of weeks ago it was the bluebirds getting to know each other.

This morning the woods were full of chatter as if all the birds were giving reports of the winter experienced down south.

This bird has a bit of nesting material in his beak and was courting a number of likely prospects for a nest mate.    

Footprints Across the Bridge

Proud and lowly, beggar and lord,

Over the bridge they go;

Rags and velvet, fetter and sword,

Poverty, pomp, and woe.

Laughing, weeping, hurrying ever,

Hour by hour they crowd along,

While, below, the mighty river

Sings them all a mocking song.

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity ’neath the sun;

Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.

Dainty, painted, powdered and gay,

Rolleth my lady by;

Rags-and-tatters, over the way,

Carries a heart as high.

Flowers and dreams from country meadows,

Dust and din through city skies,

Old men creeping with their shadows,

Children with their sunny eyes,

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity ’neath the sun;

Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.

Storm and sunshine, peace and strife,

Over the bridge they go;

Floating on in the tide of life,

Whither no man shall know.

Who will miss them there to-morrow,

Waifs that drift to the shade or sun?

Gone away with their songs and sorrow;

Only the river still flows on.

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity ’neath the sun;

Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.

Frederic Edward Weatherly---London Bridge

Deer Favorite

This is my favorite deer picture and was taken in a fairly urban area along the Little Calumet River in Gary, Indiana.

He was grazing through the wildflowers along the river bank in early May and barely took notice to me and the camera.

The Grass

One from the archives this dark, dreary, and drizzly Monday; the beauty of the grasses in black and white.

Heaven and Earth

The sunset reflects off of a sea of snow and the sky seems to trace out the paths of the people on the ground in an answer to our wanderings.

Snow and snow fleas

Ahhh, Coffee Creek in the snow--we got about 8 inches here. The snow fleas are out and about for the first time in years you can spot them as tiny black specks on top of the snow.

Snow fleas are not really fleas; they don't bite, nor do they make themselves at home on your pet. They are, however, an indicator of water quality. And Coffee Creek's water quality must be good here at the park because the snow fleas are abundant.

What a Difference a Year Makes!

Here's a warm up from March 17, 2012 when spring came early.

This year there is nearly a foot of new snow on the ground, and no matter how fast it melts the daffodils will not be showing their heads by March 17, 2013!

Cheery Chickadee

The Speckled sky is dim with snow,

The light flakes falter and fall slow;

Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,

Silently drops a silvery veil;

And all the valley is shut in

By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree;

The snow sails round him as he sings,

White as the down of angels’ wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall

On bank and brier and broken wall;

Over the orchard, waste and brown,

All noiselessly they settle down,

Tipping the apple-boughs, and each

Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof

The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;

It paves with pearl the garden-walk;

And lovingly round tattered stalk

And shivering stem its magic weaves

A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low,

Stands like a maiden in the snow;

And the old door-slab is half hid

Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post

Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;

All day the blasted oak has stood

A muffled wizard of the wood;

Garland and airy cap adorn

The sumach and the wayside thorn,

And clustering spangles lodge and shine

In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,

Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;

In surplice white the cedar stands,

And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree:

But in my inmost ear is heard

The music of a holier bird;

And heavenly thoughts as soft and white

As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,

Clothing with love my lonely heart,

Healing with peace each bruised part,

Till all my being seems to be

Transfigured by their purity.

Midwinter by John Townsend Trowbridge

Watercolor

Taken through a dense fog, this picture reminds me of a watercolor painting.

Coffee Creek

A very light snow was coming down on Coffee Creek Saturday afternoon and very little was out battling the frigid winds.

Dragonfly Dreaming

Saturday warm up from the archive: These guys are easier to photo first thing in the morning when they're sucking up heat from the sun to get moving for the day. Closer to noon they will generally become too fast to photo.

March in Cold Injustice

Suddenly I saw the cold 

and rook-delighting Heaven

That seemed as though ice burned 

and was but the more ice,

And thereupon imagination 

and heart were driven

So wild that every casual thought of that and this

Vanished, and left but memories, 

that should be out of season

With the hot blood of youth, 

of love crossed long ago;

And I took all the blame out of all sense

 and reason,

Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,

Riddled with light.

Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,

Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent

Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken

By the injustice of the skies for punishment?  

W.B. Yeats Cold Heaven