Spring discoveries
Now that spring is here, there are frequent new developments in the woods along the stream, and I've been drawn out there almost daily to marvel at what new green thing is appearing out of the ground. A couple of weeks ago, I noticed vast expanses of pointy brown spears piercing the layer of leaf mulch:
Soon the woods were carpeted by broad, flat, speckled green and brown leaves:
On Tuesday, I was walking around the perimeter of the field with Meg A, looking for any gaps large enough for a goat or sheep to escape through (her animals will soon be grazing on the pasture that is my yard), when a tiny flash of yellow caught my eye. It was a small, perfect LILY, and it led me to peer over the crest of the hill to see more lilies, thousands of them, covering the hillside:
The following day, I went on a long, slow walk on the short path that runs along the stream and through the woods on my land. I stopped often, and deliberately looked at what was all around me: the soil, the leaves and other debris covering the soil, the small green things poking up through the leaf mulch, the trees budding out, the full streams rushing along, receding from their high water marks... there is so much that I want to learn here. It feels very sweet to see tiny plants in the wild, and be able to identify some of them, and know that I will get to watch them grow, and that they are perfectly adapted to their environment--I don't have to worry about whether they are getting enough water, or sun, or whether they're being out-competed by weeds (although I know that there are some invasives lurking around). In the woods, there is equilibrium (more or less). On this walk I saw trillium, false hellebore, trout lilies in abundance, orpine, meadow rue, strawberries, ostrich fern (fiddleheads!), other ferns, and many things that I have not yet identified. I'm excited to learn more about everything that I find in the woods. I know that fiddleheads, trout lilies, orpine, and strawberries (obviously) are edible, and learned from a friend and Google that bloodroot is "strong magic" and probably best left alone (it kills cells, and some people use it to treat skin cancer, with some terrifying results). But it's very pretty.
Today I went for another slow, contemplative walk. The sky was grey when I started across the field, and it had been drizzling on my drive home from work. I approached Bacon Brook with my eyes on the ground, but movement across the water caught my attention. A small brown mink hopped over and under logs, running along the bank opposite me. The first wildlife I've seen here other than birds. As I reached the point where Bacon Brook joins Sandy Stream, the sun came out and it was suddenly so warm that I decided to take off my jacket. I stood still, basking in the warmth, and noticed a sound that had not been present when the sky was overcast. It was a very quiet crackling, and it was coming from an expanse of trout lilies that were in a patch of sun. I crouched down and got very close to them, and confirmed that they were definitely making noise, in the absence of any breeze--the sound of thousands of tiny plant movements rustling the dry leaves through which the lilies had emerged. As I looped back on the upper part of the trail, heading home, dark clouds were rolling in and the wind was rushing through the bare upper reaches of the trees. The first raindrops were starting to come down when I saw this, and it's embarrassing to say, though it shouldn't be, I was so touched by the sight of a deep purple trillium blossom just beginning to emerge, that it brought tears to my eyes:
I can't wait to bask on these mossy rocks on a hot summer day with my feet in the water:
Soon the woods were carpeted by broad, flat, speckled green and brown leaves:
On Tuesday, I was walking around the perimeter of the field with Meg A, looking for any gaps large enough for a goat or sheep to escape through (her animals will soon be grazing on the pasture that is my yard), when a tiny flash of yellow caught my eye. It was a small, perfect LILY, and it led me to peer over the crest of the hill to see more lilies, thousands of them, covering the hillside:
The following day, I went on a long, slow walk on the short path that runs along the stream and through the woods on my land. I stopped often, and deliberately looked at what was all around me: the soil, the leaves and other debris covering the soil, the small green things poking up through the leaf mulch, the trees budding out, the full streams rushing along, receding from their high water marks... there is so much that I want to learn here. It feels very sweet to see tiny plants in the wild, and be able to identify some of them, and know that I will get to watch them grow, and that they are perfectly adapted to their environment--I don't have to worry about whether they are getting enough water, or sun, or whether they're being out-competed by weeds (although I know that there are some invasives lurking around). In the woods, there is equilibrium (more or less). On this walk I saw trillium, false hellebore, trout lilies in abundance, orpine, meadow rue, strawberries, ostrich fern (fiddleheads!), other ferns, and many things that I have not yet identified. I'm excited to learn more about everything that I find in the woods. I know that fiddleheads, trout lilies, orpine, and strawberries (obviously) are edible, and learned from a friend and Google that bloodroot is "strong magic" and probably best left alone (it kills cells, and some people use it to treat skin cancer, with some terrifying results). But it's very pretty.
Today I went for another slow, contemplative walk. The sky was grey when I started across the field, and it had been drizzling on my drive home from work. I approached Bacon Brook with my eyes on the ground, but movement across the water caught my attention. A small brown mink hopped over and under logs, running along the bank opposite me. The first wildlife I've seen here other than birds. As I reached the point where Bacon Brook joins Sandy Stream, the sun came out and it was suddenly so warm that I decided to take off my jacket. I stood still, basking in the warmth, and noticed a sound that had not been present when the sky was overcast. It was a very quiet crackling, and it was coming from an expanse of trout lilies that were in a patch of sun. I crouched down and got very close to them, and confirmed that they were definitely making noise, in the absence of any breeze--the sound of thousands of tiny plant movements rustling the dry leaves through which the lilies had emerged. As I looped back on the upper part of the trail, heading home, dark clouds were rolling in and the wind was rushing through the bare upper reaches of the trees. The first raindrops were starting to come down when I saw this, and it's embarrassing to say, though it shouldn't be, I was so touched by the sight of a deep purple trillium blossom just beginning to emerge, that it brought tears to my eyes:
I can't wait to bask on these mossy rocks on a hot summer day with my feet in the water:
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