The colours of fall

I find it difficult to write anything that these images do not say better themselves.

Come enjoy the beauty of fall on the meadow. 

 

 

 

 

 

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
    don't you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
    the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
    freshets of wind? And don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
    warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
    inside their bodies? And don't you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
    the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
    vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
    its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
    the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

Mary Oliver
New and Selected Poems: Volume Two

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

October on the meadow

 Invigorating, crisp October mornings that sparkle.

"The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly
changes from summer cottons into its winter wools."
-   Henry Beston, Northern Farm

 Bright sunny Afternoons. 

Smiling comes easy and laughter too like leaves falling.

 

September frost

 A beautiful frosty September morning on the meadow.

 A refreshing and exhilarating time of year!

 "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." - Albert Camus

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice can speak. - See more at: http://peopleforothers.loyolapress.com/2010/09/more-mary-oliver/#sthash.qocQOZLD.dpuf

 Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(Thirst)

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice can speak. - See more at: http://peopleforothers.loyolapress.com/2010/09/more-mary-oliver/#sthash.qocQOZLD.dpuf

Rubber Boot Adventures

 

"Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything."

 

Here on the meadow we love our rubber boots / wellies / gumboots ....

David and I affectionately call them 'bubba roots'.  They are my favourite footwear!  Fortunately because of our lifestyle I can wear them almost anytime, and do! Without them I might miss out on some pretty great adventures. 

The latest adventure with my Big Boots was a picture taking wander after a thunder and hail storm the other night and as the mist moved in. 

  
It was a magical evening that carried on into the dark with a star heavy sky.

Our summer birds taking leave.

Mid August, like clockwork, our hummingbirds depart.  They know.  The nights are cold now and mornings too. We will watch for them again in May when they return. First one, then a week later more arrive and by June we have literally hundreds of hummingbirds visiting our feeders and filling the discs in our cameras. 

Our beautiful Evening Grosbeaks are still here.  Feeding their young with a ready supply of sunflower seeds.  They grow so fast and soon they will be off as well in search of warmer nights.  Some of our swallows are late to leave but will soon be on their way.  

We try to send them strong and loved and well fed into the world.  Their departures are always bitter sweet.  Will they make their journey safely?  There are so many perils ahead of them.  We look for special markings and document them and watch for their return the following year.  They are dear to us, if you see them, please say hello from the meadow.

For the past 6 weeks, we have had a resident Great Blue Heron surveying the creek and making circles over the hay fields.  A magnificent bird who has become quite comfortable with us. The other day, after a rare and enriching visit to our home from a client (and new friend) as we sat with our afternoon coffee on the porch, our Great Blue came and landed atop the wooden swing set ~ so close to us.

 He stayed awhile and David got some lovely photos.  I sometimes wonder if our birds know that we talk about them and share them with the world this way.  

Okay, enough with the wildlife; I'll get back now to answering letters from all the amazingly diverse and beautiful people who write to us asking about commissioning a Touch Wood Ring. 

But first, let me leave you with another Mary Oliver poem from her book Owl and Other Fantasies . . .  (thanks Mary!)

SUCH SINGING IN THE WILD BRANCHES
It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves -
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness -
and that's when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree -
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing -
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky - all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then - open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.