|Early Morning Thunder-Skies|
|Teacups in Full Bloom|
|Wild Nae Roses|
|Not-So-Innocent (but he's mowing)|
|Garden Beyond the Lawn|
|What Purpose, Rail Thing?|
|Yesterday's Goose Fly-by|
|Bird Captain's Chair (dogs on guard)|
It's 4 a.m. and thunder crackles in the distance, building into a boom that wakes me up. I love thunderstorms in the Rockies--no tornado sirens to dampen the music of the storm. Peeking out my office window I watch flashes of lightening all along the ridge, forming a false dawn. Even the robins are fooled and start their chirping chatter early.
Yesterday the sky turned alternately blue and steel-gray as if uncertain whether to shine or rain. The decision is made and the rain now pours. Free water for the fledgling garden.
June 18 Rose Report:
Lovely as Devonshire cream on scones, my teacup roses open their diminutive petals of butter-yellow and cake-frosting-pink. Two drops of rain remain like clear dollops of dew tucked into the petals. A pink bud nearby on a tall rosebush is opening slowly, gracefully and I'm thinking of this bud as a the lady of the roses. Another rosebush is crowned with buds so tightly furled and wrapped in greenery that I have no idea what color hides inside. The Nae Roses have gone crazy with blooms and next to it is another elegant rose of cream that has finally woken to the world.
So I ponder beauty. It is the rosebush that is beautiful with its blooms, or is it the flowers? The rosebush goes through seasons and maturity much like we do and perhaps its blooms are like smiles or kind eyes or gentle touches, fruits of the spirit. Otherwise beauty in the flower alone is fleeting. Some of these roses mature slowly and other bloom like a flash of lightening. Then, they all fade and dry. It is the bush that endures and has its moments of beauty, moments of dormancy.
Today I savor the roses.
June 18 Afternoon Pond Report:
Todd is home, mowing the lawn. I follow like a robin seeking upturned bugs, but really I'm on weed patrol. My eyes take in the pond, but today--like yesterday--is quiet. The geese have not returned although a flock of 18 flew over the pond and I wondered if that was the Elmira Pond geese. No way to tell, but I waved and they flew on by.
My garden is showing more signs of life, and now I have two pumpkins growing. A few beets and radishes have appeared, and peas are already curling their leaves as if anxious to climb the fence. It sits in a state of anticipation just beyond the freshly mowed lawn. I weed, glance to the pond, and weed some more. A railroad machine pulls up and I am wondering what purpose it serves. Polishing the rails? Mowing the tracks?
Over the whir of the lawn mower I hear Todd shout, "Run baby ducks, run!" I'm crouched at the river-rock bed that circles two towering pine trees, pulling quack grass and a few thistles. Turning toward the pond I see what Todd sees--a bald eagle flying barely 30 feet above the waters. Oh, hide ducks, hide! Suddenly, I am delighted that the reeds have grown so thick and tall. The eagle heads north and no baby ducks are harmed.
I miss the shot, though, so for the remainder of my weeding I pack my camera on my shoulder. But silent, the pond remains.
Blue Heron is now startling me. I'll be stalking the ring-necked duck, looking for mergansers or ducklings when Blue Heron bursts out of the reeds! If birds could chuckle, I'm sure he'd do so when I jerk in reaction. I'm using the binoculars more these days to see through the reeds.
Weeding, I discover that I like the view of the pond from the pines. Soft new needles brush my head, mussing my hair. I just might set up Bird Nerd Central over here for tomorrow's coffee. For now, I take a break on the south porch and drink my iced cran-water.