fledgling crow

There are all sorts of things to worry about in the world, from the increasing brutality meted out to the peaceful demonstrators at Taksim Park in Turkey who just want to preserve a small urban green space, the US turning its surveillance state upon itself and blanket-spying on its own citizens through the collecting of their digital metadata (and anyone who sends an email, text, or phones someone in the US), to the Senate scandal in Canada where welfare cheats like Senator Mike Duffy  live high off the hog on the public purse and the ongoing violence in Syria and its spillover into northern Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley, causing the Lebanese Army to deploy in Tripoli in hopes of stopping the snipers and machine gun battles. Just the other day, the old souk where I loved roaming about in the heart of Tripoli was the scene of sniping and shooting. Depressing.  

So, why do I worry about one fledgling crow that was kicked out of its nest four days ago by mom and dad crow? I was worried that the neighbourhood cats would get it at night, especially the first few days when fledgling crow was ground level. I was relieved to see that in trying out its wings it managed to hop onto the bottom rung of the railing outside my garage. It stayed there a long while and at one point, when its  head was bobbing downward, I thought it was dying. Was it even eating anything?

However, I shouldn't have worried at all about that scruffy looking fledgling crow. It's perfectly natural for crows to boot out their fledglings to teach them how to survive, to get on with life. I found that out after I dug out a few worms and threw them to fledgling. He looked at me with alarm, squawked, and, frightened, clumsily jumped away. I thought it would injure its wings in getting away from me. Leave it alone, I read. Do not interfere.

The parents still keep a close watch on fledgling crow and swoop in now and then to give it some food. One of the crows dive bombed my head as I was working in the garden, sending me a warning to leave its child alone. I can hear another fledgling, too, two doors to the west. Fledgling must have a sibling. The parents, the resident crows, have been busy scaring off people and squirrels, flying around, and encouraging the fledglings in their crow arts.
 
The next day, the fledgling had progressed to the top railing and began short hop flights from one post to the other, trying out its wings. It looked awful clumsy. Yesterday I saw it skim fly downwards across the back yard, over the hedges to the back lane. It cawed plaintively there until its parents came to the tell it what to do.

With its parents in the neighbour's plum tree cawing loudly and hammering and gouging the tree's branches to get its attention, it managed to fly to the tree's lower branches, although its wings first tangled in the foliage before it steadied itself.  It spent the night there.

Today, thankfully, it is sitting even higher, on a top branch of the still higher Manitoba Maple, surveying the area that will be eventually become its territory. No wonder crows notice everything. Since they are fledglings they have been patiently looking everything over, casing the place for danger. Soon fledgling crow will lose its awkwardness and learn its predator ways.   

The Divine Goodness: A Tree called Sacred (part 3)

image source

Just finishing the poem I started serializing awhile back. It has another ending somewhere in my notebooks and papers, but I can't find it so I wrote a new ending.

It is best to read parts 1 and 2, to make better sense of part 3. 

The Divine Goodness:   A Tree called Sacred

part 1

part 2

Lately, however, I have become bitter.

I stand in full sun in plantations, 
not clinging to the side of mountains, 

shaded by companions, tended by careful hands.  

Barefoot, my caretakers have left for the city, seeking survival.

My canopy gone, the birds no longer visit 
they can’t sing in the chemicals sprayed on my green lungs.

I struggle to keep the velvet brown bean alive within me.  

Good morning.

I am plantation coffee.

Even though I am dressed up in inciting names,

my history erased, I get thrown down the drain.

I sit cold in the bottom of your disposable cup,

stinking like stale coffee breath.

 

Crow Woman

Photo by Linda Tasa, from her Facebook page.  

The main character in the opening scene of our play The Old Woman & the Barefoot Maiden is Crow. She was played by my sister, Della. Della is a wiz when in comes to putting costumes together, as you can see from the evocative crow she has crafted.  She made the mask and the wings, which were a combination of a Cirque du Soleil scarf that she found at a rummage sale in Ireland and a hand-crocheted black shawl she found in a second-hand shop. The rest of her crow-like clothing, she cobbled together from bits found at used clothing shops and new clothing stores. Crow's black feather earrings were found in a shop in Bahrain. Here, Crow flies about the stage, getting into a frenzy in preparation for winter, for the old Akka of winter, that is, the Old Woman of our last days.

dance for roadkill

In our city, run over grey squirrels are a regular sight. You better not get too attached to those critters that visit (and sometimes live) in your yard--or house. In my neighbourhood, grey squirrels are always crossing the street, back and forth, up and down, foraging for food, taking risks. Sometimes they cross by squirrelling on the overhead hydro wires that cross the street, but usually they prefer to run across asphalt. Our city is car culture supreme. Cars and trucks are a continuous presence. This squirrel was scampering across Van Norman but, poor thing, it found itself under the tires of a vehicle. Crow notices these sorts of acts of carnage instantly. Crow often comes quick to the spot. Here Crow is doing a dance for roadkill, celebrating supper. However, I warned Crow: watch out, you may be next. Crow kept on dancing, and jabbing in for a peck.

Crow is not he only one who finds roadkill tasty, people dine on it too:

Roadkill enthusiasts in Canada recommend roasting beaver, which should first be soaked in salted water overnight after removing all fat. Squirrel is said to be excellent when broiled on a stick over a camp fire.

a Magnolia bandit in my yard

A bandit wearing a black mask surprised me on Queen Victoria's Birthday! As I wasn't expecting to find him there on my back deck when I looked out the back door window, he startled me. But I think I startled him, too. From behind the hops and the yellow dogwood, he just suddenly appeared on the railing. He looked right at me and then left like a shot. But he was there long enough for me to get a good look at him so I would be sure to ID him. And, the black mask was a dead giveaway. There aren't many who wear black masks, that I knew.

I had gone into the back porch after setting the dining room table with four of my Royal Standard MADE IN ENGLAND bone china coffee cups and saucers with the small blue forget-me-not pattern that my mother gave me for my birthday once years ago (maybe my 40th?). I had already brewed a pot of loose leaf Twinings CLASSICS EARL GREY TEA, and it was almost 4 pm. -- time for royal tea in honour of Queen Victoria.

What else to do on a rainy holiday Monday afternoon but take up a bit of silliness? Of course, if you are a regular reader of my blog you will know that I am not a monarchist, so celebrating a Queen's birthday, a colonial queen to boot, is not exactly a regular habit of mine.

But Monday being the second day of steady grey, drizzly rain, and chilly weather on a long weekend meant to signal the start of summer, and Monday being what in Canada is called Victoria Day in honour of Queen Victoria, and as every now and then I have to do something silly in order to stay sane, I decided to have some British tea (i.e. one of the crops its colonized) in British fine china cups (did they appropriate the process of china, too?) with a slice of cake at 4 pm in the afternoon. I had some willing accomplices: one of my friends, one of my sisters, and my only husband. They were all game for the tea party, albeit some of them (e.g. my husband) more of a a captive audience than a willing participant.

I was so excited when I saw the little bandit! I had never seen him before, not in the city, not in the woods, not on a trail, nor in the neighbourhood. So I did not know his name, but I looked him up and sure enough, there he was. I had no idea if he'd been in my yard before. But he was gorgeous! I just had time to note the black mask across his eyes and his beautiful yellow breast streaked in black. And that he was no bigger than a tea cup!

magnolia warbler

a missing few weeks

We had finally gotten rid of the snow and it was getting sunny and springlike. This is a view facing south towards Lake Superior, down Dufferin Street, which has a steep hill. This steep drop off use to be the shoreline of the ancient lake that preceded Lake Superior. You can see the feet of Nanabijou in the far horizon, a laker in the waters of the harbour, and sheets of solid ice still close to the shore. And, of course, you can see the hydro lines that crisscross the streets of our city.

photo by Dean Salerno

I found this photo on the WeatherNetwork site. This is the ice breaker that goes out into the harbour and chops up the ice so the lakers can come in to load up.

photo by Chris Garbo
Photo of the Aragonborg loading up with malt in Thunder Bay
and will be headed to Ireland.

A better view of that ship out in the harbour, by the grain elevators.

Then we had a sudden hailstorm. The sound was something fierce; at first I didn't know what that was pinging loudly against the windows of the house. The hail was the size of ping pong balls. My friend, Armi, who bought herself a brand new little Pontiac last summer, has her car in the shop now. The bill for hail damage: $5,600. Our cars were unaffected. Something about thicker steel on the body of the car, depending on the make of the vehicle, I believe. Then we had a winter storm return back, making everyone grumpy. The winds were fierce, we had a lot of snow, and it was back to boots and winter coats. Tassu loved it more then ever because it was bitterly cold again. I worried that the daffodils that had just started to sprout out of the ground in my garden would be killed even before they had a chance to greet the spring.

Today, most of the snow has melted although there are big patches here and there in my yard and around the city. McVicar's Creek is rushing water again and there's an open patch where the creek meets Lake Superior. Canada geese, mallards, ring-billed gulls, and migrants passing through can all be found paddling in the water. Most of the shoreline is still frozen solid, except for the odd patch of water. Someone new to town with a small packsack on his back went down to the lakeshore, sat on the old log that is in just the perfect spot, and, well, just sat.

a happy ending for one horse

horse rescued from flood waters in Australia.

When she was a girl, my sister had a love affair with horses, especially Palaminos. This love probably came from some tv show we used to watch, possibly Roy Rogers. She still has the china Palamino that she got to replace getting a real horse. Today, my sister has a love affair going with a blackbird. However, she has expressed her lament for his return on her blog.

Well, bird numbers plummet due to a number of reasons, including:

1. our love of plantation (i.e. inexpensive) coffee (birds lose their habitat);
2. use of pesticides (pesticides can kill birds directly, poison them without killing them directly, or affect them by reducing their food or habitat resources);
3. demand for new homes (More than 50 percent of all wetlands in the contiguous U.S., and many of the wetlands in Canada, have been drained or filled since the time of European settlement);
4. and demand for cheap industrially produced food (10 million blackbirds killed over the years as crop pests, as I wrote about some time ago).

I wonder why few news reports about the recent sudden bird deaths explore reasons of corporate capitalism? Even the argument that perhaps weather is the culprit cannot be blamed in isolation. Haven't we humans been playing havoc with the weather through our consumer lifestyles and demand for leisure, efficiency, and cheap prices NOW?

And Martha Rosenberg asks, isn't it a bit ironic that "The Blackbird Killers [are] Sent to Investigate [the recent] Blackbird Deaths"?

"Do wildlife officials feel just a little hypocritical answering media questions about the New Year's Eve blackbird "rain" when they know they kill 200 times that amount a year as "pests"?

In 2009 the US Department of Agriculture's Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service (APHIS), part of USDA, says it poisoned 489,444 red-winged blackbirds in Texas and 461,669 in Louisiana. It also shot 4,217 blackbirds in California, 2,246 in North Dakota and 1,063 in Oregon according to its posted records.

We won't even talk about the starlings, crows, ravens, doves, geese, owls (yes owls) hawks, pigeons, ducks, larks, woodpeckers and coots our tax dollars annihilated to benefit ranchers, farmers and other private interests. Or the squirrels, rabbits, badgers, bobcats, beavers, woodchucks, coyotes, opossums, raccoons and mountain lions.

The he-men at the Wildlife Service also shot 29 great blue herons, 820 cattle egrets and 115 white-faced ibises in 2009, despite the known dangers of approaching shore birds."

an empty nest, a dog, and a deer

I saw this bird's nest in a shrub alongside the sidewalk on my walk the other morning. I had gone out looking for fake tea lights; I've got a surprise in mind. The nest was empty; the birds who haven't left town now that the snow is flying are huddled inside conifers for protection from the wind. The bird that made this nest was quite the artist as well as practical. The puffs of dog fur and batting that it wove into its nest look quite comfy and warm.
Dog in the snow, photo by Johanna

The photo of the dog is not taken by me; it's just a dog galloping through the snow somewhere around Thunder Bay. It's a sweetheart of a photo that has captured that wonderful sense of pure joy simply for being alive on a snowy day! Dog medicine is simple: have dog, joy enters your heart. A dog's spirit is unbreakable; dog medicine teaches us faithfulness and unbounded love.
Buck near the creek, photo by Rod and Roger Pollard

And this photo is simply majestic. It reminds me of the majesty of charismatic animals. Deer medicine tells us to be gentle with ourselves and others. Deer appears on our path to take us back to old teachings. Deer are extremely acute to subtle movements and changes. Deer medicine comes to tell us to listen carefully for that which is not spoken.

the lesson of the grouse

I wasn't sure what the lesson of the grouse was. Why did it cross my path that afternoon on the Pigeon River trail to High Falls? It quietly made its presence known. If we hadn't looked down we would have walked right by and not even noticed its furry boots and dappled feathers. The path on the Canadian side is enwrapped in magic; you walk into a welcoming mysterious yet familiar forest of multiple patterns. Wherever you look, you see a different pattern, different textures, different colours; wherever you point your nose, different scents come to greet you; wherever your ears tip, different sounds emerge, from the hush of moss to the roar of water cascading with a fury. It's a sensory experience. I have to say (not that I'm biased :-)) that it is indeed more spectacular than the path that runs along the American side. The path on the Canadian side is not overly groomed; it's more wild. You have to be a bit on the fit side to hike the Canadian side.
There are few barriers to where you can walk -- if you have the guts. Personally, I am a bit of a chicken -- or should I say grouse? -- at the edge of high rocks and water. You can see the American side across the way, the viewing platforms that they have built.
I prefer staying on the ground. Here I am lying on one of the riverbed rocks to let you see the size of some of the stones along the falls. The rocks had been warmed by the sun on this Indian summer day, so my rest on the rocks was healing, a hot stone treatment gifted by the ancient medicine spirits of the river. During spring, after snowmelt, this area would be under water and I would then be floating -- or perhaps -- rushing my way
down to spill over the falls.
This morning, I looked in the Animal Speak book on my shelf, under "Dictionary of Bird Totems," and found Grouse. It tells me that the medicine of the grouse is sacred dancing and drumming:

"The ruffed grouse reflects that working with new rhythms and new movement will be beneficial to opening a new flow of energy into your life. Dance and drumming would become wonderful tools to open new realms for you. This doesn't mean you have to go out and take dance lessons, but simply practice and develop your freeform expressions. You will be surprised at the changes in your own energy. See yourself dancing in new patterns and realms within your life.
....
Dancing a circle is an act of creation. It is the marking off of sacred space. When a circle dance is performed, the individual creates a sacred space within the mind--a place between the worlds, a point in which the worlds intersect.
....
The grouse does have the ability to fly softly if it chooses. Rhythm does not have to be audible to be effective. If grouse has come into your life, expect new rhythms and new teachings on dancing and drumming and drumming your life to new dimensions.
High Falls on Pigeon River. The right side is the Canadian side, the left side is the American side, and the river marks the boundary waters, half here/half there.

"and when you laugh, laugh like hell"

A ruffed grouse on the path along the Canadian side of Pigeon River. Isn't this a beautiful example of how a being lives within its natural environment and changes and adapts to changing conditions? I went for a hike with one of my sons on the American and then the Canadian trail that both run along the river at the border between our two countries after picking up my new camera. So, of course, we wanted to try out the camera, and besides, the trails at the border (there are numerous on both sides) are spectacular in the autumn. We saw this grey morph ruffed grouse right by our feet on the path. It wasn't bothered by us, at all. It just kept pecking away at the lichen, eating whatever it was in there that it found delicious. It had a crest and a beautiful deep indigo ruff around its collar.

My son exclaimed, "Too bad I don't have my gun!"

I reminded him, "This is provincial park land and no hunting is allowed! That's probably why this grouse isn't even afraid of us."

So, he went shooting with my new camera instead and caught this photo.

My new camera is a Samsung 12.2 mega pixels 5x zoom and although it cost more than my two older cameras, I think the photos are not as sharp in colour. I may be disappointed. I also noticed there seems to be some fading of distance in the background of landscape shots. But then again, there are more buttons to play with so I may have to work more with this camera. My old cameras both bit the dust; the shutter button fell off of the Sony Cybershot that I got as a hand-me-down from my oldest son, who got it as a hand-me-down from a friend. I googled how to repair it; I read don't bother. And my other camera, the old trusty heavy thick-bodied Sony Cybershot which I started this blog with suddenly stopped taking all photos except close-ups.
The other day when I was raking leaves in my yard and trimming dried up plants, I decided to make a decorative nest. Here is the nest I made in my yard with fall time yard clippings and fallen leaves, into which I placed the Chinese fortune ball I bought downtown Toronto a number of years ago from a shop that was closing down. I saw a similar nest last week on the ground off the Boulevard Lake path that some folks had made to surprise early morning bicyclists like me. It was one of those "live in the moment" interventions.

Fall is a time when thinking about mortality seems to come around quite often, particularly when one hikes through the autumnal northern landscape of sweet-smelling decay and death.

Below is a quotation for Fall musing which I found in an article on creativity and its importance in Native communities by Cherie Dimaline in First Nations House Magazine. I'm always keeping my eye open for well-written interesting short essays that I can use in my writing classes to show how writers construct their argument, and Dimaline's essay is perfect. As part of her support, she brings in advice to emerging writers from writer William Saroyan:

"The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think. Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell, and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough."

which is worse, a black duck or a brown duck? or are they both dead ducks, so it doesn't matter?

South of the 49 parallel, in the Gulf, the BP oil crime is predicted to cause massive loss of wildlife and birds over the years. What will be the number? Does BP care? Does Obama really care? If anyone really cared the laws wouldn't be so wimpy that these sorts of crimes continue to happen with very little accountability. Why are these CEOs,managers, et al, not seen as criminals? Corporate criminals? Why, no matter what disaster neoliberal capitalism creates, we continue to support capitalism?

Canada: Syncrude duck. Our dirty ducks are more black than brown.

Meanwhile, north of the 49 parallel, in Alberta, the Tar Sands oil project continues full steam ahead, billowing out all sorts of toxic sludge, which, THANK GOD for SCIENCE, is being saved in humongous vats. What to do with it? Hmmmm. What government policy allows this folly? It is predicted that the Tar Sands will cause the deaths of 160 million birds over the next 30-50 years. The 1600 ducks that, a few years back, landed on one of the gigantic toxic tailing ponds and drowned have been forgotten by most Canadians. In Alberta, the ducks at least still make the news. The politicians, however, seem not to have seen the images. Further, the number of ducks that get swallowed by these tailing ponds is out of sight, out of mind.

Bye-bye birdie. Capitalism always wins.

our feathered friends need our help

The photos BP doesn't want you to see

AP photographer Charles Riedel [has] filed some of the most disturbing images yet of the effect the BP oil spill is having on Gulf Coast birds.


photo by Win McNamee. From a photo series on the Toronto Star online.

humility

This morning, when I went downstairs with Sydney, our lovebird, on my shoulder, and like many mornings, I first went to open the drapes of the living room window, I looked out through the window and through the porch windows and saw two tiny redpolls, one with a big bunch of dried fluff in its beak, the other bobbing expectantly on the wire beside it. The one with a mouthful of earth recyclables, darted straight into the cedar shrub that grows perilously close to the window panes of our front porch, planted years ago by some previous owner much too close to the house. With a flash, the other redpoll also darted into the bush.

I turned to Sydney and said, "Isn't that cute? Did you see that? Those redpolls are making a nest in our cedar bush." Then I put her in her cage.

I pulled downed one of my books off the shelf to find a poem this morning. Harmoniously, the poem that released itself from the spine of the book, mirrored the words of Raymond Moriyama, a renowned Canadian architect, who I heard on CBC radio as I made myself a cup of coffee. He spoke of the effects of having been interred as a Japanese Canadian as an 'enemy alien' in an internment camp in Canada, the racism he faced as a youth, and the lifelong lessons he learned from the earth speaking to him when he made a tree house as a sanctuary from the racism he faced. He spoke about how through his years of escape to his treehouse the earth showed him light, gave him the lessons he learned that guided the principles of the architecture he has designed, and the way he lives his life. He spoke of the 3 'l's": listening, learning, and leading. He also spoke of the words of his grandfather, of a saying his grandfather passed down to him, which translates from the Japanese to English to: "even the monkey falls from the tree." Moriyama says he has kept his Grandfather's lesson of humility in his heart.

The Holy may speak to you
from its
many hidden places
at any time.

The world
may whisper in your ear.

Or the spark of God in you
may whisper in your heart.

My grandfather showed me how
to listen.
~ Rachel Naomi Remen pg. 67 WomanPrayers

winter walk

A couple of weeks ago when I was in Fort Frances, I went for a morning walk along the shores of Rainy Lake. Where the lake empties into the Rainy River, an old Railway bridge (1908) crosses the narrows towards Minnesota, US. I stood on the Canadian side of Couchiching shore looking at the American Koochiching / International Falls to take this photo. I was amazed to see an open patch of water on the lakeside of the old bridge as this is the dead of winter. You can see the between space of liquid water and ice and snow through the puffs of wet air.

I walked through the snow at the disputed Pither's Point. The landscape had been covered in hoar frost during the night and we woke up to a white frost-laden wonderland. Besides 3 ducks that swam in the open expanse of water situated at the narrows, on the lakeside,

I heard two woodpeckers but could not see them.

The sound was coming from here.

If you stood real still at the shoreline you could hear a faint shushing sound of ice crystals sighing. Walking against the sun, narrowing my eyes against its brilliance,

I saw the air was filled with ice crystals, with small points of light dashing diagonally to meet me, and realized the sound was coming from the ice crystals as they set free from the trees.

bird's eye view

first prize Nature, World Press photo. Canadian photographer Paul Nicklen.

unpublished letters from birds

goldfinch caught by my sister, Katja. Find more of her feathered friends at her Red Bubble site.


Musical Variations of a Naked Woman....Qabbani abbreviated. See the full text here.

Two beautiful roosters
Crow on your chest
And sleep.
I remained sleepless.
The hand-embroidered sheet
Was covered with birds,
Roses and palm trees.


A Lesson In Drawing....Qabbani abbreviated. See the full text here.

My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the color gray I dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.
Astonishment fills his eyes:
"... But this is a prision, Father,
Don't you know, how to draw a bird?"
And I tell him: "Son, forgive me.
I've forgotten the shapes of birds."

My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.
I hold the pen
and draw a gun.
....
My son sits at the edge of my bed
asks me to recite a poem,
A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow.
My son licks it up, astonished, saying:
"But this is a tear, father, not a poem!"
And I tell him:
"When you grow up, my son,
and read the diwan of Arabic poetry
you'll discover that the word and the tear are twins
and the Arabic poem
is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers."

a Christmas card I bought once


When I love you.....Qabbani abbreviated, see the full text here

When I love you
A new language springs up,
New cities, new countries discovered.
The hours breathe like puppies,
Wheat grows between the pages of books,
Birds fly from your eyes with tiding of honey,
Caravans ride from your breasts carrying Indian herbs,
The mangoes fall all around, the forests catch fire
And Nubian drums beat.


Katja's birds.


Why do you ask? Qabbani abbreviated, full text here.

When I write
I roam light
As a legendary bird.

Canada Geese. from the web somewhere. photographer unknown.


The following poem by Qabbani, I don't know the title, but it's one of my favorites. I never get tired of reading it. Each time I read it, it is new. Now, that's magic.

I taught you the names of trees
And the dialogue of the night crickets
I gave you the addresses of the distant stars.
I registered you in the school of spring
And taught you the language of birds
The alphabet of rivers.
I wrote your name
On the notebooks of the rain,
On the sheets of the snow,
And on the pine cones.
I taught you to talk to rabbits and foxes
To comb the spring lamb’s wool.
I showed you the unpublished letters of the birds,
I gave you
The maps of summer and winter
So you could learn
How the wheat grows,
How white chicks peep,
How the fish marry,
How milk comes out of the breast of the moon,
But you became tired of the horse of freedom
So the horse of freedom threw you
You became weary of the forests on my chest
Of the symphony of the night crickets
You became bored of sleeping naked
Upon the sheets of the moon,
So you left the forest
To be ravished by the leader of the tribe,
And eaten by the wolf.

Nizar Qabbani