"We do not go to the green woods and crystal waters to rough it, we go to smooth it. We get it rough enough at home, in towns and cities." - G. W. Sears

We had a nice rain this  afternoon and more expected tomorrow.  I hope this is a sign of a wet or at least average rainfall this summer.

These dianthus are new.  Love the clovey scent and the blue foliage.  In the past, dianthus haven't done too well in my heavy, clay soil, but I keep trying different locations hoping to find a site they can tolerate.

The crabapples are amazing this spring.  The red one is just outside my kitchen window.  The white is in front of the milkhouse.  

It's been an outstanding year for tulips.  The cold weather has kept them fresh and beautiful for weeks.  I have one or two late blooming varieties yet to show.

Spent the morning rambling through the fields around my farm.  This time of year, there are always interesting things along the hedgerows.  Above is a wild grape leafing out.  I thought the colors and textures were nice.

Soon to brighten the creek side with beautiful blooms.

Probably a robin's nest but the redwing Blackbirds were hovering in the tree above it.

Definite beaver activity.  I would like to find the dam but am completely unwilling to brave the tick infested woods to search it out.  

A little downey watching the dogs and myself pass.

MacDuff racing across the pasture.

"People are different on a path.  On a town sidewalk strangers may make eye contact, but that's all.  On a path like this they smile, say hello, and pet one another's dogs. 

~ Anne Lusk 

Jessica Fowler

Mar 22, 2012

Hedgerow

There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.

Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.

There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water balls roll.

There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.

It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.

When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.

An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.

Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.

Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.