April 30, 2010

Every time I wander near the kitchen sink the sweet and earthy scent of daffodils draws my attention. I cut them a couple of days ago, placed them in a glass vase that belonged, I'm guessing, to my mother, and put them on a ledge above the sink in the kitchen. The daffodils bloomed early this year, as has everything else, and the trees are budding and leafing out; spiky red maple flowers litter the driveway and road. There are flowers on the serviceberries (some call them sugar plums), and I've seen pink tulips in town and yellow dandelions everywhere. In the woods I've spotted spring beauties, Dutchman's-breeches, downy yellow violets, marsh marigolds, and what I think are Mayflowers and trout lilies. Every day it seems there is something new. It's been dry, exceedingly so, but last night, about 4 a.m., rain came and soon thunder, rolling along in a far-off voice, coming closer, becoming louder. I waited for the old dogs on the bed to hear it and to begin quaking, but the thunder rumbled on by leaving the soft rain to patter on by itself. The dogs slept, the slightly snoring one snoring without interruption. One advantage to being deaf, I guess, is that one no longer hears thunder.

Today the windows are open on a richly scented, earthy day. But - a fire has been lit to keep the old ones warm and because it seems rich to have windows open and a fire going. Once in a while sunshine pulls through the clouds; other times a drizzle falls. So far it is a very lax, noncommittal type day.

I have been keeping up daily walks, going one way or another, and even to the Tyoga Trail which in late April was clear, dry, and lovely as ever. But usually I walk east from home down the road a mile or so and back, or I go west and make a loop using a portion of the North Country Trail. The NCT, as it is also called, is a hiking trail that goes from New York to North Dakota, some 4,600 miles, and a few of those miles go through the Upper Peninsula, including the hamlet of Sand River. I pick up the trail from a dirt road called Railroad Lane which does, indeed, run alongside the old Soo Line railroad, and I follow it a short distance to a spot on the river that the Department of Natural Resources once dammed and flooded for, as best I can figure, duck hunters to enjoy. That didn't really work out (though maybe it did for the ducks). At the spot there is a small clearing, a decaying concrete boat ramp, a boulder with a plaque, and the river spreads out here, pooling around many islands, its wide banks displaying the worn stumps of dead trees. It feels desolate.

I follow a public access road back out to Sand Lake Road, and each time I make the turn onto Sand Lake Road I hear a plunk. Some days it's a plunk plunk. The public access road comes out at the south, marshy end of Sand Lake, and there is a log right there that large painted turtles sun on. At first it was just one turtle sunning himself, sensing my presence, diving into the lake. Then, two turtles. Plunk plunk. One day I tried to go extra slow and quiet - but I only got so close before plunk plunk plunk. With the vegetation in the marsh now leafing out, I can no longer see the turtles, but I hear them.

A bit farther down, as the road follows along the west shore of the lake, I'll startle a pair of geese or ducks. In a thrashing of wings they take off, low, across the water. I startle them, they startle me. Yesterday there was just one Canada goose, and I wondered about his mate.

It was near the flooded area that I found this feather:

It is about a foot long and two and a half inches wide. If you know what bird it is from, I'd appreciate knowing.

So it continues to be an odd spring. I am picking up NBC and Fox again on my TV (they disappeared over the winter) and shudder anew at the news, stare dumbly at shows I don't understand, and turn it off. PBS is the only network that consistently comes in, and I have been appreciating its shows on genocide, the Buddha, money and human behavior, disappearing frogs ... which reminds me of peepers. With all the early activity of spring, I've been listening for the peepers' song. They are out in some places, but I have not yet heard them on my stretch of the river. Could it be the dryness? I will listen tonight and see if the rain brings out their voices.

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