Field Notes

I watch otters play as a merganser, with her ruddy hood, touches down beside the beaver lodge. The pond is still, but I listen to the high waters of yesterday's rain rushing through the cattails. A marsh wren flits through the thicket busily picking the shrubs for seeds. It is morning in the wetlands. The sun has called us out into this world where one hundred thousand Chinese workers rise from their dormitory beds to assemble ipods for seventy cents an hour while I sit and watch otters play.
In a world where everything is measured by its economic value, an ipod sells for three hundred dollars. The uplands around this marsh have been logged. Their value is in board feet. At one time sheep grazed here. Seventy percent of New England was fields until the market fell out of merino wool and the pastures became forests again. Tomorrow these woods may become renewable energy for biomass plants that consume fifteen hundred tons of wood a day. Economy determines landscape.
An otter, snaking in and out of the dark waters, herds a lumbering beaver towards its lodge. The beavers have thrived here after they were trapped to near extinction. Their pelts were once the preferred currency of the colonies until the market fell out of beaver hats. Today they are aquatic rodents that must be relocated because they threaten the preveailing economic activity. Their meat is prized only by fishers and coyotes. The price for their pelts is too low to offsett the difficulties of trapping.
Hunters come to these woods with their shotguns for ducks, turkeys, bears, moose and deer. These animals are managed. They have economic value. And now, the cattails have disappeared into dollar signs and the rushing brook has become an advertising jingle. Nobody knows how many otters live in this pond. Nobody knows the size of their range. They're here with their rolls and their slides. They eat the fish that no one desires. They play in this world where an ipod is more valuable than forest or a wetland.
The otters play as a woodpecker tap tap taps high in a pine and a flock of geese honks overhead on their way to warm lands. They play.

Google Earth

I have lost
track
of the moon
waxing and waning
in me.

The sun
rises and sets
in the glare
of the computer
screen.

I cannot google
the pull
of the tides
or the circle
of the earth
from spring
to fall
and back
again.

I cannot walk
barefoot
on the embers
of a fire
with all
that is lost
to me
in the pixels
of this monitor.

I no longer
lie in an open
meadow
as a star
carrying
the dust
of other
planets
bursts
open
the night.

I google earth
and die.

Morning Light

I strike
a match.

Fire
catches me
stumbling
from the darkness
of warm slumber.

It is elemental.
It is basic.
It is magic.

My eyes stare
into ancient
memories.

Red twists orange
yellow licks
away the night
meat sizzles
water boils
sugar explodes
witches burn
on embers
from my hand.

I am caught
I am caught
I am caught
in every cell
of every body
burning.

All in one
morning.
All with one
match.

It is elemental.
It is basic.
It is magic
that bursts
from the remnant
of the sun
in a volcano
of molten lava
rising from the
magma of the earth
this fire
shapes
the ground
I walk.

All in one
morning.
All with one
match.

Soundtrack

One two three
four five six
a hammer cuts
through
the early morning
in one two three
four five six
rests
one two three
four five six
the nail
is driven

"What is he building?"
I wonder
as I split
through the ferns
turning golden
and search
for a trail
to follow.

One two three
four five six
noise takes
my thoughts
One two three
four five six
in the quiet
morning
the geese honk.

I stand
in a thicket
of red alder
click click click
one bird rustles the leaves
click click click
chip chip chip
two birds
then three
white-throated sparrows
stop
to feed
in this swamp
click click click
chip chip chip
tic tic tic.

And then the commerce begins.
Cars and trucks on the roads
people going to work
swish swish whoosh whoosh
sputter clank bang
gears change on the hill
morning has broken
the soundtrack
wails.

There is no place
in the continental
United States
that is more
than twenty-one miles
from a road.
swish swish whoosh whoosh
sputter clank bang.

Sound travels
to a pile of feathers
where a creature
has feasted
A wood chipper
a leaf blower
a lawn mower
a siren
that won't quit
whirr whirr whirr
grr grr grr
whirr whirr whirr
"How loud is this noise,"
I wonder
"on the ears
of the forest?"

Whirr whirr whirr
the leaf blower rings
drone drone drone
a plane flies
low over the waters
filled with fall colors
whirr whirr whirr
drone drone drone
a chainsaw chimes in
ayi ayi ayi
in triplets agian
the engine grinds
on the drums
of my ears
three wood ducks
pick their way
through the light
the symphony rages
whirr whirr whirr
a duck quacks
the airplane drone dies
whirr whirr whirr
keeps keeping on.

Otter scat
blocks a deer path
the chainsaw stops
whirr whirr whirr
the leaf blower
groans on.

How loud
is this noise
on the ears
of these woods?

A beaver's hearing
is seven times
more sensitve
than mine.

A coyote
locates
its pack
by sound.

Birds mark
their territory
with song.

whirr whirr whirr
the leaf blower
drones on
the lawn mower
the wood chipper
the chainsaw
beep beep beep
a big truck backs up
beep beep beep
rouses me in my dreams
whirr whirr whirr
the triplets go on
drone groan
whirr
one two three
four five six
beep beep beep.

Indian Pipe
photo by Mari H. Hall

A Tale of Two Orchids

Epipactus Helleborine
Platanthera Psycodes

Orchids both
descended from a grain
of pollen
borne on the wing
of a stingless bee
captured in the resin
of a tree
twenty million years ago.

Twenty million years ago
and they were old then
trampled long before
by dinosaurs.
the family orchids
burst upon a landscape
human eyes have never known.

Epipactus helleborine
Platanthera psycodes
orchids both
blossoming
like testes
on this summer day
in these my woods
where I stand
in a sea of ferns
my senses charmed
by a single tongue
of purple
dripping dewdrops
one by one
like crystals
on the prism
of my lens.

Platanthera psycodes,
the psychotic
psychedelic
of a plant
ignites
these green ferns.
This Small Purple Fringed Orchid
in my magnifying glass of colors
could melt away
the pain of childbirth
and soothe the tired calves
of a people
who walked these hills
before the white man came.

Platanthera psycodes
Epipactus helleborine
members both
of the family orchids
thousands strong
on every continent
surviving only
through the grace
of mushrooms
and sweet solitude.

Helleborine
roadside orchid
of the tiny blossoms
green and brown
and maybe yellow
to some eyes.

Helleborine
carried to these my woods
by a European
just a century ago
looking now
for that singular alliance
berween fungi,
seed, and light.

Helleborine
just another family orchid
in the streets of downtown Boston
and Karachi, Pakistan.
High in the Himalaya.
Russia, Bhutan, Cyprus,
Turkey, Lebanon,
it knows no bounds
but the grace of mushrooms
and sweet solitude.

Epipactus helleborine
Platanthera psycodes
(now I know their Latin names)
Orchids both
they bloom today.

In the presence
of these plants
plagues have come and gone
wars been lost and won,
mountains moved and children born,
men have sailed the seas
in search of gold and God,
walked on the moon
and launched rockets off to Mars,
we have settled lands
and started farms
in the presence of these plants
we baptize our young
we pray for ourselves
we bury our dead,
in the presence of these plants
we laugh, we sing, we dance
in the presence of these plants
the family orchids
love seeks
a singular alliance
between flesh and soul and life.

And here,
in these my woods today,
two orchids bloom.

Field Notes

07.20.09
I am sitting on the logged stump of a once great white pine, in the midst of laurel, royal ferns, marsh ferns, and beech tree stump sprouts. The beavers have created an opening in the canopy here. I turn my face to the sun. A cherry tree that they felled is hung up against a red maple. This place has become a crossroads in the thicket of swamp that surrounds me. I can hear the blue herons cackling on the marsh, the yellowthroat is defending his territory, a bull frog twangs. The air sticks to my skin. There is moisture everywhere and yet there are no mosquitoes. It is strange. They are such a part of this landscape, I wonder why they are missing. There are very few bats this year. White nose syndrome has decimated their population. They eat mosquitoes. There are also fewer swallows. They, too, eat mosquitoes. It has rained constantly. The mosquitoes should be unbearable. Yet there are very few. What does that mean for the habitat as a whole? Is that why there are fewer swallows? What role do mosquitoes play in the ecology of this wetland? They are a nuisance. A danger even, with encepalitis, malaria, and West Nile virus, but they are more a part of this place than I am. Where are they?

There is coyote scat beside me on the stump. There is gold thread at my feet. There is such green abundance all about me, that it overwhelms me. I am at a loss for words in the thick of this northern rain forest. The longer I sit, the more I see, the more I hear, the more I become a part of these woods. This is my neighborhood. My Broadway and 92nd street. My Southie. My barrio. How many people on this planet are sitting in green this morning?

A beech leaf drifts gently to the floor. Why did it fall? There is a reason for everything here. A laurel leaf beside me has been chewed. There is a bird dropping beside it. I followed a bear's trail to this place. This clearing is alive with stories. A logger, the beavers, a moose, birds, bears, deer, and insects unknown and too numerous to count. I could spend a lifetime in this universe and still not know it.
A bumble bee buzzes by.

This is my laboratory. This is my study. This is my office. My camo is my business suit. A noise beside me startles me and my heart jumps. My skin crawls. A rush of adrenaline surges through me. What will I do if it is a bear? I know they are safe, but they are big and they are wild. Walk backwards slowly all the books say. Whatever you do, don't run. But I can't get the fact out of my brain that black bears like to play ball with human heads. A breeze rustles the cattails and then the beech leaves. A mosquito scouts my hand for a place to drill. I pack my pen and slip back into the green.