how many have you seen, Shawn?

Cloudy and hot. Swallows nesting in one of the bluebird houses in the back. Young woman smelling lilacs along a sidewalk in Shelburne. Full moon just barely above the horizon this time of year. When the sun is high in the sky, the moon is low. Big bugs banging against the window screens in the evening. What could be more of a sign of summer than that?

 foamflower

 white trillium

wind flower

 golden alexander

 lily of the valley

columbine

star flower

heaven hovers low

view from the Day farm, Ira, Vermont

Completing the mourning dove survey with Doug for the 2nd year on Thursday.

5/28/10

The other day, Kathy Clarke and I drove along a ridgeline to the Eshqua Bog near Woodstock. Dappled sunlight on the dirt road and surrounding greenery. Idyllic vistas of hillside, forest, and field. This morning I drove the spine of the Green Mountains on Doug Blodgett's annual mourning dove survey. Full moon setting over the Bliss farm. Steam rising over brooks and ponds. On both occasions there was the feeling, especially at the summits, that one was at the top of the world, and that heaven hovers low in the sky over the Green Mountain state. There was literally the feeling that one should hunch down in one's seat when driving along the hill tops lest one scrape up against the Pearly Gates or some such.

I thought about Montana, and the Big Sky country. The majestic vastness of that place takes one's breath away. Vermont is kind of the little sky country. There is a lot of beauty concentrated in a small amount of space. A goodly number of heaven's tailings seem to accumulate here.

same spot, different direction

flowers fall

American flags going up along Main Street in Brandon. Dandelion fluff in the air. One bumblebee in the crabapple tree outside my office. The petals have already mostly fallen away. There is a newly arrived load of wood for winter in Pete's back yard. Sheesh.

Flowers fall, despite our longing.
Weeds rise up despite our loathing.
Zen Master Dogen

pan

wild cherry

Wild cherry trees in bloom. The blossoms look like bottle brushes. Smell of starter fluid for barbecues wafting through Rutland. Three manure spreaders on Rte. 7. Sound of a veery on the morning walk. Like the old woodchuck says, it's hard to believe that one bird is making that sound. It's more like Pan playing heartily on his pipes from somewhere deep in the woods.

lilac time

by the garage

The following was originally printed in the Rutland Herald May 29, 1929. It has reappeared each year in the Herald since then. It was in Saturday's edition.

Now is the brief season of the lilac bush, modest and enduring symbol of the depth and permanence of New England traditions. It has given a name to color, perfume, poems, songs, story.
Translated into many languages, its name is upon the lips of millions in many lands. Yet it remains unspoiled by such widespread fame. It is still the sturdy wholesome dooryard emblem of the New England home.
With what eager anticipation has it been planted at the threshold of new, bravely begun homes.
With what poignant grief has it been left behind for long bitter migrations from whose hardship and loneliness homesick thoughts have turned in an anguished longing.
To what strange and distant homes have its roots been transplanted, there to grow blossoms and,  in turn,  be abandoned again.
On this very day in mountain pastures and along deserted roads, over the graves of dead homes bloom the lilac bushes planted by the founders of those pioneer households. Many of those graves would otherwise be indistinguishable, their timbers long since buried, their cellar holes filled in and grassed over.
Were it not for the steadfast lilac bush, there would be nothing to mark that here once dwelt human souls who shared happiness, sorrow, hope, and despair.
Who lived there, whither they went or what their adventures, nobody knows. No descendants make annual pilgrimages to remember and decorate these forgotten graves of the homes of ancestors. But each year at this season, the lonely, faithful lilac bush blooms again and lavishes its sweetness in memory of the hands that planted it.
(W.H.F. 1877-1935)

transplanted to this spot by Allyn last year

everything stops

Adam C Smith on flickr

Rainy. Finding that I'm often sleeping on my left side in the morning as the sun is entering from the windows on my right. Yard sale in West Rutland. Butterfly crossing the road in Clarendon. Seeing an oriole outside the bedroom window for the first time of the year. When you see an oriole, everything stops.

Emerald Country

Rainy. Light green dusting of pollen covering my car. Rhubarb is starting to grow. Sound of a cowbird in the lower field. The aspen trees are unwrapping themselves in their early spring color of bright emerald green. I'm always reminded this time of the year of the Wizard of Oz, and the pilgrimage to the Emerald City. In May, the state of Vermont is the Emerald Country.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green fields sleep in the sun.

 William Wordsworth
Zen page a day calendar