ROBIN'S SONG

It will soon be November when, we will no doubt, experience our first snow fall heralding the approach of winter. "White Hell", as I call it. I used to like winter spending time sledding, skiing, and playing hockey. Then, one day I woke up to find myself grey haired (balding actually), long in the tooth with bad knees and sore hips. So, we wait and watch as the birds at our feeders change from migratory species to the local residents such as nuthatches, chickadee, and woodpeckers. Most of our migratory bird species have flown south to their wintering grounds. We may get lucky yet and be visited by White-crown, or White-throated Sparrows, but other than that the only migratory bird that's still hanging around is an American Robin. There were several robins for awhile, but now we're down to one lone male. The reason that he's still here is because of our Flowering Crab Apple tree that's loaded with tiny apples. They're ripe to the point of falling off the tree, something the the robin seems to enjoy. It'll swallow two, or three apples, then take a few a break for a few minutes before returning for more. Soon, however, the apples will be gone, and the robin will also depart. Winter's up this way can be long, so when we next hear robin sing we're a bit overjoyed, as we know that spring is just around the corner.

Robin’s Song

When the days grow longer, and 

with snow still upon the ground,

Robin 

long before dawn,

wakes us with his morning song.

As spring changes to summer, and 

the days grow shorter,

Robin,

at dawn,

wakes us with his morning song.

But,

when the days grow shorter, and 

the nights grow colder, and

winter’s breath is in the air,

Robin 

no longer 

wakes us with his morning song.

When flurries turn to snow, and 

gather on the ground,

Robin sings one last song, and

is gone.

Throughout the winter 

silence reigns. 

We pine to hear a morning song.

And then one day,

as winter wilts away,

just before the dawn,

we hear a song, 

and rejoice to know, that

Robin has returned

to wake us with his morning song.

EAS

Downy Woodpecker
Had-coloured  Etching

Black-capped Chickadee                                Pencil Drawing

Red-breasted Nuthatch    Hand-coloured Etching

White-breasted Nuthatch    Pencil Drawing

BIRDS FLY

That birds fly is a marvel to behold.

Goldfinches twitter as they fly,

and eagles soar high up in the sky.

Vultures find a thermal,

and seemingly motionless,

float like kites.

Ravens dip and dive,

and play

on winds up high.

Chickadees flutter,

here and there.

Ducks and geese

make use of flight

and migrate to warmer climes

while we mere mortals 

can only stand and stare.

EAS

A LEAF FELL

This one time we went up to Algonquin Provincial Park in late October hoping to experience a few good days before the first snowfall. Fallen leaves lined the trails, and the Aspens and Tamaracks were beginning to turn a golden yellow. We hiked a number of trails including one of my favourites the Spruce Bog Boardwalk Trail. It's a short, very easy trail to hike starting off through a spruce forest, then crossing the Sunday Creek Bog before reentering another spruce forest that leads to a small kettle bog. It's on the way to the small kettle bog that I find very interesting. The ground cover in this area consists of sphagnum moss, lichens and various species of fungi. Peering down onto this maze of plants from the boardwalk one can easily let your imagination run wild, and envision another world, a world inhabited by tiny creatures. As I peer into the maze I'm reminded of the sci-fi movie Avatar, and a moment in my life experienced when just a boy wandering the fields and forests that once existed near my family home.

A Leaf Fell

There was a time, one lazy summer day when still a youth, I went exploring.
I roamed through fields filled with golden grasses, and wild flowers.
I watched as butterflies flittered, bumblebees bumbled, and honey bees buzzed here and there.

Beyond the golden field a forest grew
its darkness dampened sound,
and from the top of a tall, old, tree,a leaf fell
and drifted lazily towards the ground.

An errant breeze caught the leaf before it struck the ground,
and swept it high up in the sky where it caught the wind,
and sailed away, an adventure just begun.

I wondered as it sailed away,
does a leaf, when it strikes the ground,
make a sound?

I came upon a  path less worn
that travelled through the darkened wood.
I stood, wondering, then slowly ambled in.

It was quiet in the dark, dank, wood.
Not a sound.

I looked around, my eyes adjusting to the darkness in the wood,
and came upon sights I’d never seen.
Toadstools, moss, and ferns of every sort
lived deep within the dampness of this wood.

I got down on my hands and knees, and
peered beneath the ferns.  Everything was tiny, a completely different world.
Snails, millipedes, spiders, and beetles, movement everywhere.

As I watched I wondered if those who lived within,
would hear a falling leaf as it struck the ground.

I continued down the path less worn leading deep within the wood,
exploring, observing, listening,
until the crickets, sang their evening song.

Doubting that I would ever go back, and wander down the path less worn,
I made a note, a memory kept, and stored away,
a reminder of a wondrous time, spent
one lazy summer’s day.

EAS

The Library Discovered

I've been writing a memoir of sorts that I've titled "Fly on the Wall". It consists of a collection of prose and poetry. As there's a good chance that it won't be published any time soon, from time to time I plan to post bits of its content. The following relates to an event that had a profound affect on the direction taken in my life.

The Library Discovered

I was, let’s say eight years old going on nine years old, and in Miss Montgomery’s third grade class in Midland’s Sixth Street Public School. Sounds important, but it wasn’t. I was but one in a procession of children that attended Sixth Street Public School, an impressive, massive, somewhat gothic structure, one of several similar structures built strategically across the town employed in the attempt to train the children of illiterates how to become model English speaking, somewhat literate, workers to be eventually enslaved to help to fulfill the destiny of the merchant class. But, then, that’s another story.The important part of my recollection is the fact that while a student we were subjected to a class outing. We were marched across town, actually downtown, to the Public Library, and left in the charge of the librarian, Miss something, or other, with the instructions that after she was done with us,  we were to find our way home. Now my description of the events thus far might sound a bit draconian, but what happened, at least for me, was something wonderful. Yes, I learned that you must be quiet while visiting the library, but in addition I learned that books held the key to another world, other worlds actually, and a means to escape the reality of our dreary lives. Books became my best friend. My library card opened the door to knowledge. Between the hardcovers of a book were characters both fictional and non fictional who were willing to share their life experiences, yes adventures, revealing that with hard work and a bit of luck, all things were possible. I raced through the books in the children’s section of the library, and by the seventh grade was allowed to go upstairs to the adult library. I was in heaven. Here were books about science and art that revealed, at least to me, that with study and hard work, and a lot of money, all things were possible. Money, a five letter word that rolls off of the tongue, but then sticks to your very soul like a slap in the face, easy to say, but difficult, very difficult to obtain. I went to work, working while going to school. A bad mix I soon learned. I fumbled my way through school, and at the end learned that whereas it takes two to tango, money doesn’t always lead to success. Still, at the end of the day I still had a dream, a desire to become something, and become like the writers behind the characters in the books, and share my experiences through marks on paper and written words. I worked for years, a lifetime it sometimes seemed, at things interesting, but not as I had dreamed. Still, it was as it was, I held close to my dream, and low and behold somehow, between misery and joy, I’m now where I wanted to be. I’ve become an artist, a writer, and a publisher of sorts, and through it all have learned that money, though important, is not the end-all. If I could roll back time and start all over again, a boy of just nine, I’d stick to the books and make go on a dime. Knowledge is priceless, and the word is the key to success, and to happiness above all.