Since I put up our new bird feeder which is somehow more squirrel resistant than the last one, we have had a very diverse and abundant array of visitors. The more notable, and quite common to Virginia, are the red bellied woodpecker, a pair of titmouse (titmice?), a pair of chickadees, the local cardinals (Red and Ruby), a throng of sparrows (as many as 20 at a time), and the ever-present clan of local mourning doves (up to 8 at a time) some of which actually hatched in our neighbors tree and learned to fly in our backyard.
All of this activity has apparently not gone unnoticed. A couple months back I happened upon a little pile of feathers on the grass, which only recently replaced the cracked concrete that used to cover much of our yard. "Hhhmmm...." I thought, "Looks like we had a little scuffle..."
Of course my prior bird watching experience has led me to observe the fact that little piles of feathers rarely occur by themselves, and that mourning doves, the obvious owners of the feathers judging from their size and color, are among the most timid and unassuming of local species, and not very predisposed to scuffling as it were. In fact, they often present a very tasty morsel to local birds of prey.
What I could not figure out was how a bald eagle, osprey or red-tailed hawk could manage to maneuver between the telephone and power lines and make a crash landing on the roughly thirty square feet of lawn, which also contains furniture and very often a large black lab. Knowing all of these to be quite common in the area, it seemed unlike them to be brazen enough to attempt attacking such a small prey in a confining and fairly urban space. "Well," I thought to myself, "maybe I'll come across this visitor on one of his seemingly increasing lunchtime visits."
It's one of those situations that we really don't think about until it happens. Everyday I have been enjoying the popularity of our new feeder, and even roused my poor wife from her sleep one Saturday morning to observe the red bellied woodpecker dwarfing the feeder with his graceful and majestic presence. "Isn't that exciting?" I asked, she not seeming to quite share my enthusiasm.
I am in the habit of coming home for lunch, as my office is not far, and so the other day happened to open the back door upon my arrival only to be greeted by yet another, and this time very large, pile of feathers. The only difference was that this time not far from the feathers was their owner, belly up and in the clutches of one of the most interesting little hawks I have ever seen, certainly up close. He stopped his feeding only momentarily while inspecting me and no doubt waiting to see what I would do.
I sat staring in wonder for a moment or two, long enough to observe the features of this lovely and apparently very dangerous fellow. He was in size about as large as a very large pigeon, and somewhat roundish. His coloring was very white with some grey and a few bars, though not very dark or striking. I judged him in length to be about twelve inches, with possibly a two-foot wingspan.
I carefully shut the door, ran for my camera and cautiously peaked back out. He was still quite intent on his feeding and did not seem to mind when I snapped a photo or two from about ten feet away. He hung around for about twenty minutes until there was nothing left of the dove but a pile of feathers and one foot, and then vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had come.That evening I consulted all my birding books, only to be as mystified as ever. "A sparrow hawk possibly..." I conjectured, but the coloring just did not seem quite right, too colorful and not enough white. Broad winged hawk? Still too large and rather dark in the face. Ultimately after much further and equally frustrating research I have settled on the possibility of a Merlin.
This would seem a fitting name for the magically mysterious little sprite, although I am still not quite convinced. Some of the kite species seem to be whiter in color, although I did not come across one in my research that was known to be local to the eastern coast, or seemed to match the size and coloring of my backyard predator. Of course I realize that the younger of some species don't quite have the full coloration of the adults, and that females and males often differ in color, but still nothing I saw in my subsequent research was quite convincing enough to provide what they call a "positive identification."
Needless to say the activity at the bird feeder has been somewhat diminished of late, although I have no doubt it will pick back up again. And when it does I may yet have another chance to observe our little predator. After my photographs are developed, and assuming they are clear enough I may consult the opinion of an expert on local hawks and falcons, but until that time I am happy to remain uncertain as to the proper name of my little friend.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Winds of Change
Winds change
With the drop of an acorn
The scent of nostalgia
Ripped his mind
Summer love was gone
The laughter would never come again
Life goes on and on
And change
Is pervasive
Like the swirling leaves
Caught in the vortex
Of autumn winds
Churning the mind and soul
The future lies ahead
The past is left behind
Life goes on and on
Like the seasons change with the wind
Summer’s laughter gives way
To autumn’s remorse
And surrender
To winter’s frozen end.
With the drop of an acorn
The scent of nostalgia
Ripped his mind
Summer love was gone
The laughter would never come again
Life goes on and on
And change
Is pervasive
Like the swirling leaves
Caught in the vortex
Of autumn winds
Churning the mind and soul
The future lies ahead
The past is left behind
Life goes on and on
Like the seasons change with the wind
Summer’s laughter gives way
To autumn’s remorse
And surrender
To winter’s frozen end.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Tales from Turtle Creek - Part 1
The Crossroads
Turtle Creek runs through the Little Jungle. It is a small muddy creek which includes sections of man-made canal, and winds around the wooded area on the Southside of Old Town Alexandria. In the 1970's it was a haven for bums and hobos (what we now call homeless people) as well as our gang of locals. There are a few different paths through the Little Jungle (as we called it) which converge at Turtle Creek in a legendary spot known as the Crossroads.
We used to meet at the Crossroads on Saturday nights and build campfires, drink Molson Ale and roast bacon on sticks. At first we sat around in a circle on our skateboards under the three low overhanging trees which formed a natural shelter to this mystical spot where trails, levees, and canals all converged on Turtle Creek. Later we built benches which included backs and hand rails against the trees, forming a semicircle facing the Potomac River, which was just out of sight about 30 yards away, concealed by the undergrowth and overhanging verdure. A musty smell of river mud and vegetation permeated the air.
Someone always brought a radio or tape player, so the sounds of 70's rock were an integral part of the atmosphere. Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" as played by Cream and Lynyrd Skynyrd was always a favorite, along with Ted Nugent's "Hibernation," or any song that could invoke an aura of wildness. The musical background served well to create a backdrop for the telling and retelling of stories, myths and legends, and beer loosened our tongues, so that these invariably grew in the telling.
Stick battles were legendary. Nobody really knew how they started (someone probably threw a stick at someone else), but that they grew into mythical proportions is a known fact. Generally the forces were divided into Northside versus Southside, although some stick warriors had been known to go over to the opposing side to balance out the numbers. There were no written rules, but the generally accepted guidelines were that sticks had to be small enough not to inflict serious or permanent damage on the victim. This did not, of course, completely prevent the occasional injury, at which point all play stopped until it was determined that the downed man was indeed OK.
One evening a captive was taken by the Southside and forced to reveal secrets such as entrenchment locations and stick hordes under threat of torture. He staunchly refused, and in reward for his honor was tied to a tree, beaten with small sticks, and left there for several hours, until his captives came and freed him.
Generally it was only the local boys who were allowed to be initiated into the Turtle Creek Gang (also known as the Kamikaze’s because of our daring skateboarding feats, also the stuff of legend). There were a couple exceptions to this rule, but they required approval, which needed to be obtained in advance. If this was not done the consequences were serious – the offender could be banned on the charge of treason!
Gradually the word got our about the nocturnal revels taking place in the Jungle, and before long many of the uninitiated began to show up at the Crossroads on Saturday night. One night a couple car loads of courageous young ladies from the far side of town showed up and began trekking down the trail along Turtle Creek. As they had not been trained on the guerilla tactics of silence and stealth when approaching the sacred spot, some of the adjacent home dwellers alerted the local law enforcement and we found ourselves under siege.
I remember someone shouting “Bail! Cops!” and the fire was put out in a hurry, the tape player shut off and left lying there, beer and other things stashed, and a general scattering of attendees through the undergrowth. My close friend Miles and I, who were Jungle regulars (we practically lived down there,) knew every trail by heart even in the pitch dark, and as we could see the flashlights of the local bobbies, we were able to evade capture and make our exit at a strategic point where no law forces were keeping watch (we did have to turn back once when we encountered some of our gang who said the North end of the Jungle was being watched).
For ten long years the Crossroads was the central focal point and meeting place for esoteric secret society meetings and revels. The Jungle Rampage and the Net grew out of the tradition of this refuge, and became the stuff of legend. Although today Turtle Creek is almost dry, and the trails back to the Crossroads so overgrown with briars and brambles that penetration to its inner sanctum is all but impossible, if one were to make the pilgrimage, an old broken bottle opener nailed to a tree at the barely discernable crossing of two overgrown trails might lend credence to the legends of Turtle Creek and the Little Jungle from a time all but now forgotten.
Turtle Creek runs through the Little Jungle. It is a small muddy creek which includes sections of man-made canal, and winds around the wooded area on the Southside of Old Town Alexandria. In the 1970's it was a haven for bums and hobos (what we now call homeless people) as well as our gang of locals. There are a few different paths through the Little Jungle (as we called it) which converge at Turtle Creek in a legendary spot known as the Crossroads.
We used to meet at the Crossroads on Saturday nights and build campfires, drink Molson Ale and roast bacon on sticks. At first we sat around in a circle on our skateboards under the three low overhanging trees which formed a natural shelter to this mystical spot where trails, levees, and canals all converged on Turtle Creek. Later we built benches which included backs and hand rails against the trees, forming a semicircle facing the Potomac River, which was just out of sight about 30 yards away, concealed by the undergrowth and overhanging verdure. A musty smell of river mud and vegetation permeated the air.
Someone always brought a radio or tape player, so the sounds of 70's rock were an integral part of the atmosphere. Robert Johnson's "Crossroads" as played by Cream and Lynyrd Skynyrd was always a favorite, along with Ted Nugent's "Hibernation," or any song that could invoke an aura of wildness. The musical background served well to create a backdrop for the telling and retelling of stories, myths and legends, and beer loosened our tongues, so that these invariably grew in the telling.
Stick battles were legendary. Nobody really knew how they started (someone probably threw a stick at someone else), but that they grew into mythical proportions is a known fact. Generally the forces were divided into Northside versus Southside, although some stick warriors had been known to go over to the opposing side to balance out the numbers. There were no written rules, but the generally accepted guidelines were that sticks had to be small enough not to inflict serious or permanent damage on the victim. This did not, of course, completely prevent the occasional injury, at which point all play stopped until it was determined that the downed man was indeed OK.
One evening a captive was taken by the Southside and forced to reveal secrets such as entrenchment locations and stick hordes under threat of torture. He staunchly refused, and in reward for his honor was tied to a tree, beaten with small sticks, and left there for several hours, until his captives came and freed him.
Generally it was only the local boys who were allowed to be initiated into the Turtle Creek Gang (also known as the Kamikaze’s because of our daring skateboarding feats, also the stuff of legend). There were a couple exceptions to this rule, but they required approval, which needed to be obtained in advance. If this was not done the consequences were serious – the offender could be banned on the charge of treason!
Gradually the word got our about the nocturnal revels taking place in the Jungle, and before long many of the uninitiated began to show up at the Crossroads on Saturday night. One night a couple car loads of courageous young ladies from the far side of town showed up and began trekking down the trail along Turtle Creek. As they had not been trained on the guerilla tactics of silence and stealth when approaching the sacred spot, some of the adjacent home dwellers alerted the local law enforcement and we found ourselves under siege.
I remember someone shouting “Bail! Cops!” and the fire was put out in a hurry, the tape player shut off and left lying there, beer and other things stashed, and a general scattering of attendees through the undergrowth. My close friend Miles and I, who were Jungle regulars (we practically lived down there,) knew every trail by heart even in the pitch dark, and as we could see the flashlights of the local bobbies, we were able to evade capture and make our exit at a strategic point where no law forces were keeping watch (we did have to turn back once when we encountered some of our gang who said the North end of the Jungle was being watched).
For ten long years the Crossroads was the central focal point and meeting place for esoteric secret society meetings and revels. The Jungle Rampage and the Net grew out of the tradition of this refuge, and became the stuff of legend. Although today Turtle Creek is almost dry, and the trails back to the Crossroads so overgrown with briars and brambles that penetration to its inner sanctum is all but impossible, if one were to make the pilgrimage, an old broken bottle opener nailed to a tree at the barely discernable crossing of two overgrown trails might lend credence to the legends of Turtle Creek and the Little Jungle from a time all but now forgotten.
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Dream
In the dream it’s nighttime and I am running down an industrial alley being chased by dark, vaguely grotesque figures. I am carrying my skateboard; the alley is full of gravel and broken glass. I am sweating and the dust and grit form a crust on my skin. There is a feeling of dread as I frantically look for an escape, or hiding place. The wind is blowing and in the background faint electronic music is playing. I turn a corner and duck into an empty warehouse where the silence is noticeable. Through the large double doors in the back a faint light is filtering in.
I cautiously peak through the doors and I’m looking down a hill at the other end of town, the sun is shining. I ride down the road towards the park, and I see people I know absorbed in their mundane afternoon activities, yet they don’t seem to notice me. A car pulls up and it is some friends of mine who tell me to get in. As we drive under the bridge we see an amazing site – a gigantic ramp made of plywood, 30 feet high and about 50 feet across, it forms a bowl and there is not a kink in its smooth clean surface. I can smell the wood as I drop in and my wheels echo along the flexible surface in a rolling, hollow drone. There is no other sound except for the occasional ecstatic hoot of joy that carries through the wooded area surrounding the bridge and this giant megalith. I wonder how this structure came to be here, but my friends say, “We built it.”
Cars pull up and shadowy people begin to get out, there is a vague, impending feeling of threat and conflict, so we bail and run through the woods. My friends’ voices trail off in the woods and I emerge at the other end of the trail. I’m walking home and they pull up in the car again, rock music is playing on the radio. They drop me off at the end of the street near my house, there’s a park by the river where I sit down on the gravel parking lot. In the sand I am watching a large scarab beetle roll a ball of dung that keeps getting bigger. Somehow he can hear my thoughts. As I sit watching him the wind begins to blow again and I am slowly being smothered by sand. It is muffling all sound, and I try to cry out but the closeness of everything is stifling. The beetle does not seem to care. Slowly I begin to suffocate and the sand fills my eyes like so much sleep.
Now I am sitting in a car at the curb of the winding road by the old apartments. The have cut down all the trees and bulldozed the parking lot into oblivion – nothing looks the same. Three of my friends, two guys and a girl, are in the car, and I get out. It’s an old rusty 1970’s sedan that rumbles off as I stand looking up at the sky. Then I am back in my apartment, remembering her, and the others. Her face is vague and keeps escaping me. There is a feeling of loss and sadness and chances gone forever. I can’t help the nagging feeling that something I can’t remember is just out of reach. Then her face appears in front of me, striking in its vivid reality, but as I stare in horror she morphs into a terrible witch, a visage like a shrunken head hanging in the air and silently mocking me. I wake with a start, wondering what it means and how it could all be so real. The sun is shining through my window.
I cautiously peak through the doors and I’m looking down a hill at the other end of town, the sun is shining. I ride down the road towards the park, and I see people I know absorbed in their mundane afternoon activities, yet they don’t seem to notice me. A car pulls up and it is some friends of mine who tell me to get in. As we drive under the bridge we see an amazing site – a gigantic ramp made of plywood, 30 feet high and about 50 feet across, it forms a bowl and there is not a kink in its smooth clean surface. I can smell the wood as I drop in and my wheels echo along the flexible surface in a rolling, hollow drone. There is no other sound except for the occasional ecstatic hoot of joy that carries through the wooded area surrounding the bridge and this giant megalith. I wonder how this structure came to be here, but my friends say, “We built it.”
Cars pull up and shadowy people begin to get out, there is a vague, impending feeling of threat and conflict, so we bail and run through the woods. My friends’ voices trail off in the woods and I emerge at the other end of the trail. I’m walking home and they pull up in the car again, rock music is playing on the radio. They drop me off at the end of the street near my house, there’s a park by the river where I sit down on the gravel parking lot. In the sand I am watching a large scarab beetle roll a ball of dung that keeps getting bigger. Somehow he can hear my thoughts. As I sit watching him the wind begins to blow again and I am slowly being smothered by sand. It is muffling all sound, and I try to cry out but the closeness of everything is stifling. The beetle does not seem to care. Slowly I begin to suffocate and the sand fills my eyes like so much sleep.
Now I am sitting in a car at the curb of the winding road by the old apartments. The have cut down all the trees and bulldozed the parking lot into oblivion – nothing looks the same. Three of my friends, two guys and a girl, are in the car, and I get out. It’s an old rusty 1970’s sedan that rumbles off as I stand looking up at the sky. Then I am back in my apartment, remembering her, and the others. Her face is vague and keeps escaping me. There is a feeling of loss and sadness and chances gone forever. I can’t help the nagging feeling that something I can’t remember is just out of reach. Then her face appears in front of me, striking in its vivid reality, but as I stare in horror she morphs into a terrible witch, a visage like a shrunken head hanging in the air and silently mocking me. I wake with a start, wondering what it means and how it could all be so real. The sun is shining through my window.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Big Easy
Carnival horns blaring
Purple green and gold
Saints marching in
Slow and easy
Big Easy
A streetcar clanks down St. Charles Avenue
Beneath a live oak canopy
A tunnel of verdure
An arboreal aristocracy
Trailing grey moss beards
A white Lincoln glides down Tchoupitoulas
Cool and slow
Slow and easy
Big Easy
Ten miles away a pirogue rounds the bend
Of a back canal
Where levees weave a web of mystery
Beneath gesturing crowns
Of Cypress and live oak majesty
Birds, reptiles, and strange mammals thriving
Jen Laffite’s Captain lies peaceful
Entombed in marble and blessed
By a cutlass
Beneath moss-laden limbs
Tenebrous in the brackish breeze
Ghosts rest easy here
Lulled by the barge’s horn
And the hornbill’s cry
When I die
Let my soul drift down
The Mississippi
And I’ll rent a room in The Quarter
Purple green and gold
Saints marching in
Slow and easy
Big Easy
A streetcar clanks down St. Charles Avenue
Beneath a live oak canopy
A tunnel of verdure
An arboreal aristocracy
Trailing grey moss beards
A white Lincoln glides down Tchoupitoulas
Cool and slow
Slow and easy
Big Easy
Ten miles away a pirogue rounds the bend
Of a back canal
Where levees weave a web of mystery
Beneath gesturing crowns
Of Cypress and live oak majesty
Birds, reptiles, and strange mammals thriving
Jen Laffite’s Captain lies peaceful
Entombed in marble and blessed
By a cutlass
Beneath moss-laden limbs
Tenebrous in the brackish breeze
Ghosts rest easy here
Lulled by the barge’s horn
And the hornbill’s cry
When I die
Let my soul drift down
The Mississippi
And I’ll rent a room in The Quarter
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Voices
The voices in the alley
Echo through the night
In our bed we forgive them
Their reckless mirth
Through the open window they sound
As if they were next to us
The stillness of the night magnifying
Their sound
All around
They sigh
They lament
And laugh
And scream
To sleep
Perchance
To dream?
Waking with a start
I wonder
Were they real?
Your slumbering form beside me
You wake with a stir
“What was that?”
“I had a dream, a woman
Stood at the edge of the bed…”
It was nothing
I said
But voices in the alley.
Echo through the night
In our bed we forgive them
Their reckless mirth
Through the open window they sound
As if they were next to us
The stillness of the night magnifying
Their sound
All around
They sigh
They lament
And laugh
And scream
To sleep
Perchance
To dream?
Waking with a start
I wonder
Were they real?
Your slumbering form beside me
You wake with a stir
“What was that?”
“I had a dream, a woman
Stood at the edge of the bed…”
It was nothing
I said
But voices in the alley.
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