The Wetlands at Island Drive Bridge

the posts of the old coal docks on the Kaministiquia River, with the place where the Thunder Birds nest in the far left, beyond the Island Drive Bridge. Just a few 100 metres towards the bridge is where the original Fort William was located.

twiggy reflection. Interesting plants growing out of the old dock stumps

an owlish stump with the waters of the Kam reflecting the overcast sky

On our way out to Mission Island Marsh to look for swans, my sister, my neighbour and I decided spontaneously to explore along the Kaministiquia River before the bridge [We never made it to Mission Island!]. After we parked, we saw this sign pointing the way, yet this Wetland area is almost indiscernible from the road. Someone, however, has recently driven around the grounds in a big truck with big tires, mucking up and rutting the paths, and driving over, or should I say, driving down 2 concrete benches, as they were dumped over and broken. You'd need a machine to do that. They weigh a ton. I guess some folks just like to wreck anything in their path.

Many, many spring migrants were arriving as we stood on the banks of the river. Overhead, a flock of cormorants. They were on their way south, towards Mission Island. There were many goldeneyes, mergansers, mallards, Canada geese, and gulls calling out, swimming about, resting on the shore, searching for mates, poking in the dried grasses. A bird sanctuary. A sweet song sparrow called out from a tree behind us. I thought I heard a red-winged blackbird in the distance.

a pair of Canada geese and what I think is a Lesser Scaup, but I'm not 100% sure yet. This is the first time I've seen a duck like this. It was a small compact duck and had a white bill, a gray body with a soft vague herringbone pattern, a glossy black head, and two white patches under its tail.

pollution streaming by. The waterfront along the Kaministiquia River has been "developed" for more than a 150 years as an industrial ....wasteland. Thank goodness for the groups that are working to clean up these sites of destruction caused by capitalist "development". In Thunder Bay the task is huge. Our waterfront is littered with industry, abandoned industry, railway right of way, pollution, garbage. There are very few public access sites to Lake Superior that isn't owned by industry or private individuals or groups. That's why the "development" of the downtown marina is burning a hole in my heart....

A piece of a pier or a loading dock or ...? It is before concrete pilings as this mammoth chunk of pillar is made of many irregular-shaped stones placed together. It is lying on its side on the river bank. It would make a great table for giants.

A close up of its face. Orange lichen is growing on the surfaces of many of the old blocks of stone~granite~blocks. There are many stone chunks lying helter-skelter on the shore. A sign by the viewing platform says that there was an elevator in this location in days gone by.

this beautiful pink granite pillar was left behind after industry abandoned this spot. This pillar is absolutely gorgeous; a work of art yet it is lying carelessly, as if it weren't as regal as it is.

"Wow!" I called out to my sister as I picked my way carefully along the stones and driftwood. "Look at this pink granite pillar! It would be perfect for my garden! ...

of course, there's no way of bringing it home. It must weigh a ton. At least. I wonder what its original purpose was? It would make a stunning standing stone. The folks in charge of this Wetland should find it a place; it's a memorial stone.

camouflage reflection. A pair of geese come ashore to look for a nesting spot.

the fluttering of the homeless bird

Yesterday, while I was walking with my son down the back lane between College and Prospect Streets on our way to McVicar Creek (i.e. what is now called McVicar Creek), a butterfly flitted across our path! Then, crossing the road to get to the land that meets up with the footpath that used to be a tobaggon hill in the early 1900s, another butterfly fluttered across. They were the first butterflies I've seen this year. Totally nondescript; both were brown, but one had splats of orange on its wings, but when only the week before we had a snowfall and below zero weather, I wonder, where did those butterflies come from? Did they migrate in? Surely, they could not have survived the snow and cold of last week.

The creek is rushing, full of melt waters. The sound of the rushing fills your ears, which is even louder as there are no leaves on the surrounding trees to buffer the sound. My son was eager to see if he could catch a fish. "Do you think I'll find any worms in the garden?" he'd asked me earlier while I was out sweeping sand from the sidewalk. "I don't think so! The snow's just melted!"

Out by the creek, I bagged something...but it wasn't a fish, it was garbage, 3 bags full. I was disgusted with all the garbage littering the shoreline, from plastic shopping bags snagged in tree branches, to broken whiskey bottles, plastic mouthwash bottles, and even a sodden blue wool sweater...upon which, when I dragged it out of its nest at the root of a tree, I found a worm. "Here's your worm!" I shouted to my son.

On the way back we saw a small flock of cedar waxwings enjoying shriveled up crabapples. Earlier in the week I had spied some slate-colored juncos hopping about the pine needles and a pair of mergansers swimming among the gulls by the lake front, and tomorrow I'm off swan hunting....metaphorically speaking that is. In the old May 7, 1942 newspaper that I found laid over the pine boards of the back room of our house, I found this notice:

City Topics

Swans Visit Chippewa 

A number of years ago wild swan began to call at

Chippewa Park, Fort William, on their way north.

Yesterday five swans arrived. The usual period of stay

is from two to three weeks. They were seen in the bay

adjacent to the tourist camp.

As I have not seen swans in the region, I sent a query to my resident
bird expert and he replied:

"Yes, we do have swans visiting our area every spring
and fall. They can usually be seen early in the spring
before all the ice is gone at places like the Mission 
Island, Chippewa or the mouth of the Kam and other
places along the waterfront with geese and ducks.
Usually only one or two individuals are present at
any given time, but sometimes there may be more.
They're Tundra Swans, I once saw 8 flying over our
house in Lappe in formation."


Sharing with you a poem of swans, our sisters and brothers,

by  Rabindranath Tagore

The meandering current of the Jhelum,
Like a curved sword, glistening in the twilight,
Merges into darkness.
At the ebb of day comes the tide of night
Carrying myriads of star-flowers
Floating on its dark waters.
At the foot of the dark mountains
Stand in rows the deodar trees,
As if creation would whisper in dreams,
Unable to utter its message clearly.
Only the gathering of unuttered sounds
Rumbles in the dark.

Suddenly I hear,
In the vast emptiness of the evening sky
The lighting flash of sounds
Shattering from the far to the far beyond.

O flying swans (1)
Your wings drunk with the wine of tempest
And scattering peals of joyous laughter,
Raise waves of wonder in the still sky.

This is music of the wings,
This singing of celestial nymphs,
Fled past
Disturbing the meditation of Silence.

The mountains in their dark slumber shuddered,
The forest of deodars shivered,
As if the music of the winds
Brought for an instant the rhythm of movement
Into the heart of joyous immobility.

The mountains yearned
To become the aimless cloud of summer,
The trees to take wing
And follow the trails of sound,
And search the ends of space.

O winged wanderer,
Breaking the dreams of twilight
Waves of anguish arise,
Yearning for the Beyond.

In the heart of the universe echoed the burning refrain:
‘Not here, not here, somewhere far beyond.’

O flying swans,
Tonight you have opened for me the door of Silence.

Behind her veil, in earth, sky, water,
I hear the restless beating of wings.
The grass is fluttering its wings in the sky of earth;
In the brooding darkness of the earth,
Who knows what myriads of budding seeds
Are spreading their wings?

Tonight,
I behold this mountain, this forest,
Spreading their wings,
Winging from island to island,
Soaring from unknown to unknown.

To the beating of the wings of stars
Throbs the cry of light in darkness.

I hear the countless voices of the human heart
Flying unseen,
From the dim past to the dim unblossomed future.
Hear, within my own breast,
The fluttering of the homeless bird, which,
In company with countless others,
Flies day and night,
Through light and darkness,
From shore to shore unknown.

The void of the universe is resounding with the

Music of wings:
‘Not here, not here, somewhere far beyond.’

---

(1) In Bengali the word is Hansa-balākā, to pious Hindus a symbol of the human soul winging its way to its heavenly resting-place.

Spring has sprung

Finally! The angel of spring has emerged from her winter sleep! The sun was shining this morning, the weather was a mild 15 c, and the snow has been very rapidly disappearing from my yard. I think the angel of spring must've been listening to the lament "take our snow, please!"

Returning home today, after clawing away a mat of dead leaves, I found that the chicks 'n hens had emerged from their winter sleep. Their snow blanket has finally disappeared. They're none the worse for winter, and surprisingly have kept their green faces alive under the snow--or thanks to the snow and the rotting leaves!--with just a bit of burnished red to testify to their ordeal.

While cleaning away the moldering leaves and pulling out the creeping Charley that has already begun its invasive stranglehold along the ground, I heard a sweet trilling. I looked up to find robin had flown in.

Yesterday's spring wind set a weeping birch sashaying in the sky

Musti's last snow roll. Ah, the bliss of a dog's life! As a northern dog (part Finnish pyystykorva), Musti, as well as her daughter, Tassu (who is bigger than her mother because she has some Newfie in her), love the snow. Their coats are thick; their paws are like boots, spotted mukluks. At every chance they get, Musti (Blackie) and Tassu (paw) dig into the snow and push their noses around, snorting, sniffing. They love eating snow, licking snow, getting their faces snow dusted. They prefer to walk on the snow rather than the sidewalk. Sometimes this causes difficulties for me, as Musti likes to walk atop snowbanks in her search for crows' caches. This past Sunday I took them off leash after rounding a bend on the trail along Wilson St. headland.The sun's rays shone brilliant so I stopped to let the dogs play in the snow. That snow is now melted. Too bad Musti and Tassu! Your favorite season has gone out the back door....

A pot of tea

A list of things I did today after I woke up:

- made a pot of tea
- emptied dishwasher; loaded dishwasher
- hung a load of laundry on the line; ran another load in the washing machine
- sent off a group email re: letter of support for the people of Kitchenuhmaykoosib (Big Trout Lake)
- ran to the Canada Games Complex with a backpack stuffed with workout shoes, cds, scissors, comb, cape, blow dryer, camera
- noticed a pike-image in a frozen ice puddle in a back lane behind Winnipeg Avenue. (it was -7 c this morning). Checked my watch to see if I had time to stop and take a photo of this pikish ice that looked so much like the pike painting that Sinclair painted. Sinclair, who was incredulous to find out that people hate pike ... that is, some people, not First Nations.

this is a stained glass window on an old storefront on Cumberland Street. I believe it is a salmon or a trout.

"I've never heard that before," Sinclair said. "We love pike. Pike is an honorable fish."

"Yes, I can see that from your painting. It's beautiful. I've never seen such an outstanding painting of a pike before," I said. "Your reverence is clear...Unfortunately, some people think pike is garbage. They only want pickerel." I thought of the time Iris and I caught that huge slimy pike in Hilly Lake, Kenora, when we were out in the pedal boat, skirting around the weeds. We hadn't meant to really catch a fish. Now, I keep thinking of Sinclair's pike painting. It's my pike coming back to bite me....I'm going to have to try and find Sinclair...
-got ready to photo the pike-ice--only to find my camera battery died just then.
-taught a 9:10 a.m. group fitness class
-walked to Aino's. She's just returned from LoRi-dah [Florida]. Cut Aino's hair

this is my favorite photo of Aino. This photo is from La Kalevala

Inkeri telephoned Aino, to ask if I would cut her hair, too. I said, ok. The ladies have a telephone tree. Aino said Eila is waiting for me to perm her hair soon, too. She told me a story about Matti's pants.
Then, I cut Inkeri's hair. She told me a story about her son the air pilot. About how he can see from way up high the damaged lakes he flies over. She said he said you can see from the colours of the lake where the damage is.
-walked to Alli's. Cut Alli's hair. As usual, after doing her hair, I sat with her and she spread out a kahvipoyta for me. [table of coffee and tasty eatings]. She always serves coffee in small, exquisite Finnish coffee cups. Never mugs. Marimekko yellow floral napkins tucked into the ear of the cup. A plate of piirakka with suolakala on top. [piirakka is a rye dough pastry, looks like a moccasin, stuffed with rice or potato. Suolakala is salmon, raw but salted. served with a sprinkle of onion atop] Leilan tekema pulla. Liha piirakoita. Lisaa kahvia. Oh, meinasin antaa...

[ her daughter-in-law's homemade sweet bread. Meat pastries. More coffee. Oh, and I meant to give you...]

Where am I going to fit this pulla braid in my packsack? I wondered. I stuffed it along the edge, careful not to place it too close to my damp, sweaty workout gear...

-walked home.
- bumped into Sirkka by Hillcrest Park. She told me "ma olin A Peace"..."I was at A & P." I asked her about her sons. And how her sister, Helmi, is doing. And Helmi's husband, Pentti's MS? How is it now? I asked.
- arrived home at 3 pm. opened my computer and set to work. now I'm really behind...
- brought the laundry in; hung another load on the line
- marked papers
- ate the supper my husband made: brown basmati rice, pinto beans with meat, salad with arugula; ate some perogies my daughter prepared
- replied to emails
- had chai tea and pulla with lingonberry jam with my daughter
- time for a shower..... I need to finish the marking......
- thought about the Hidden from History report, and the LPH [Lakehead Psychiatric Hospital] as a site to be investigated for unexplained deaths

An Ancient Riddle Found Standing in the Backyard

East

The beginning of the journey is a tree

En-trance: the door on your drum

Take up my skin and with a heartbeat

enter my secret nuptial chamber.

Carry your eye upwards. Behold,

I offer the branching order of my lungs to blue sky.

Although you may have forgotten me and lost

the ability to read the sacred text of my grey bark,

the perfect symmetry of my seven-runged leaves,

and the pendant clusters of my five-pointed stars,

I have not ceased to exist.

I am rooted deep in the subterranean folds of your heart.

Look for me, my black talons poke through in spring.

I am Akka-Rauni, the childless one,

emanta of the harvest and female sexuality

I am the first green of spring dancing deliriously

across winter-ravaged fields.

I cackle in a blaze lit in my honour.

Behind the crimson rims of clouds

I made love to Ukko, the God of Thunder,

and from the reverberations of our yoiking

all plants blossomed.

Inside each syllable,

a sylvan conception.

South

I am Lempi, luck in love

Loviatar, Lady of the Door

Suonetar, She who heals

I am the forbearer of Suvi,

the Spirit of summer.

I reside in the uppermost realm,

the land that lies beyond the northern stars,

the land known to the Greeks as Thule,

the Edge of the Known World,

Artikos, the country of the Great Bear.

I am witchwood. I can see in the dark.

My beauty is great. My red berries,

stigmata that mark me as special and chosen.

My body, the path the Shaman travels

to commune with the spirits of the dead.

Once upon a time young women gathered

beneath the bower of my leaves,

singing songs of yearning,

calling up a lover from under me.

Once upon a time young love rejoiced

beneath the lace of my flowers,

reeling from the strong spirit

of my red breath.

West

I am She of the fells, of the fens, of the backwoods,

of the sininen salo: the grey-blue haze of low-lying lands

where the dark Eye of Earth peers from rounded swamp holes.

In the coming dusk tiny gauze-clothed souls flit and frolic

among the amanita mushrooms creeping about my feet,

seeking the amber buried in the hollows of my skirt.

I am planted at gravesites.

I hear the sorrows of those wedded to their grief.

I collect offerings. Water me with your teardrops

for I am a figure of transformation.

I invite you to my arms.

Everlasting life lives in the prayer beads of my blood.

I am the ancient tree descended from heaven,

rooted in Manala, the underworld. I am Kotipihlaja,

the first to be planted in the yard of a new home.

I am hardy.

I can outface the fierce winds of Ahava,

the cold stare of Tunturi,

thrive in poor soil

tolerate ill-treatment.

I filter winds,

my branches shutter the sun.

I will protect you, too, for I am older than music.

North

Some know me as Luis

the second letter of the tree alphabet.

In Latin I am sorbus aucuparia—bird-catcher.

I am beloved by birds for they seek the sacred revelation

of my fruit to survive the midday blackness

of the wheel of winter.

Still others call me the whispering tree

for I have secrets to tell those who will listen,

those who heed the invisible council

of maidens clothed in red.

I tell the story of the ancestors.

I come from the homeland of magic,

no one leaves my company unchanged.

Where can you find an omen? a sign that I am near?

Find my charms written on stones rattling in squirrel skin bags;

carved on copper antlers my secret cures to restore

even the most broken life. Look closely on long-limbed

driftwood for the notches of my calendar of moons.

And my runes, ah, my runes

are woven between the warp and woof

of the finest linen, plucked

from the jawbone of a pike,

heard in the language of birds.

Throw a stick of rowan in the fire,

if the wood oozes honey your lover is near.

Look for me in the tail feathers singed red.

I am the daughter; I have returned.

Emanta [with dots over both a's]: a Finnish word meaning a strong, central woman who organizes and controls the domain around her. An emanta is irreplaceable; there is no one else like her. She is strong. Strong-willed. Strong in body and stamina.

Yoiking: Sami singing birthed from one’s embeddedness in the land and Spirits.