I was looking for another animal to act amazingly so I could skip the
crow until later in the summer season. I want to write about nature
through its exciting manifestation. I experienced another eagle
flyover, from the celery flats to Mona Lake, as I pedaled south on
Airline Drive. But I have already declared a day of the eagle. I doubt
the eagle can become an ordinary bird, as is the crow, although I have
sighted two eagles this week. I was pedalling to a field of prickly
pear, which are wrapping up their flowering season. I found one or two
on each cluster of cactus pods, closing for the evening around eight
in the evening. The flower petals dry and collapse into a flame like
point. These easily break off, leaving a clean socket at the top of
the prickly pear sconce. wonder if an artist has designed a prickly
pear candle holder? I plucked a flower, hoping to take it home. I
thought I had avoided the spines of the pear, but my fingers soon
acquired twelve to tenty tiny quills, sharp and finer than
accupuncture needles. Short quills, I had a hard time pulling them out
in the field. I think I still have two or three burrowing into my
finger pads. I plan on returning to watch the pears grow, and maybe
I'll harvest a pear or two, but I understand gloves are a good
precaution. I understand there's a technique for wetting down the
prickly pear, too. The patch lies on a sandy hill with a western exposure to sun to the
left of the Cress Creek trestle. On the railroad tracks, I saw
evidence of murder. A collection of reddish gray feathers, fouror five
inches in length, had been scattered among the crushed rock by the
east rail. Some raptors, such as the Peregrine Falcon, clean bird
kills of feathers before flying home with fresh plucked meat. I found
a ball of red and white fluff that had floated into those reeds that
can be used for scouring pots. My cell phone camera had died, so I
couldn't take a picture of this remarkable one inch ball of feathers. Speaking about murder, a murder awaited me as I bike through a parking
lot adjacent to three or four acres of mature oak and beech woods.
Eight crows were milling about on the crumbling asphalt, clawing at
pebbles and debris. Yes, I have been counting crows. With a few caws,
all of them gave way for me, and landed on branches in the woods. I
have always liked the glossy black feathers of the crow, and admired
them as the murder waited for me to roll along on my bike. Why they
were attracted to this point in Knoll's parking lot, I cannot say. A
half hour later, I saw a flock working some crummy grass near the new
McDonald's at Norton and Henry, where seeds and insects awaited. I stopped at Tim Horton's for a cup of coffee and fve Tim Bits. I was
waiting upon by Breena, whose name means Raven in Gaelic, or so she
shared with me. This morning, I didn't see crows, but I heard them. I wonder if the
black birds have created a language out of two expressions: CAW! CAW!
and CAAW, CAAW, CAAW? As illustration, I have made use of The Twa Corbies of Arthur Rackham,
an Englishmen. Crow on a Branch by Maruyama Kyo (1733-1795) shows the
crow from an oriental perspective. It was available once from Galerie
Janette Ostier, Paris and still might be available. Although, I am not
seeing a link for this gallery. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rackham
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maruyama_%C5%8Ckyo
http://www.bridgemanart.com/search/location/Galerie-Janette-Ostier-Paris-Fran...
crow until later in the summer season. I want to write about nature
through its exciting manifestation. I experienced another eagle
flyover, from the celery flats to Mona Lake, as I pedaled south on
Airline Drive. But I have already declared a day of the eagle. I doubt
the eagle can become an ordinary bird, as is the crow, although I have
sighted two eagles this week. I was pedalling to a field of prickly
pear, which are wrapping up their flowering season. I found one or two
on each cluster of cactus pods, closing for the evening around eight
in the evening. The flower petals dry and collapse into a flame like
point. These easily break off, leaving a clean socket at the top of
the prickly pear sconce. wonder if an artist has designed a prickly
pear candle holder? I plucked a flower, hoping to take it home. I
thought I had avoided the spines of the pear, but my fingers soon
acquired twelve to tenty tiny quills, sharp and finer than
accupuncture needles. Short quills, I had a hard time pulling them out
in the field. I think I still have two or three burrowing into my
finger pads. I plan on returning to watch the pears grow, and maybe
I'll harvest a pear or two, but I understand gloves are a good
precaution. I understand there's a technique for wetting down the
prickly pear, too. The patch lies on a sandy hill with a western exposure to sun to the
left of the Cress Creek trestle. On the railroad tracks, I saw
evidence of murder. A collection of reddish gray feathers, fouror five
inches in length, had been scattered among the crushed rock by the
east rail. Some raptors, such as the Peregrine Falcon, clean bird
kills of feathers before flying home with fresh plucked meat. I found
a ball of red and white fluff that had floated into those reeds that
can be used for scouring pots. My cell phone camera had died, so I
couldn't take a picture of this remarkable one inch ball of feathers. Speaking about murder, a murder awaited me as I bike through a parking
lot adjacent to three or four acres of mature oak and beech woods.
Eight crows were milling about on the crumbling asphalt, clawing at
pebbles and debris. Yes, I have been counting crows. With a few caws,
all of them gave way for me, and landed on branches in the woods. I
have always liked the glossy black feathers of the crow, and admired
them as the murder waited for me to roll along on my bike. Why they
were attracted to this point in Knoll's parking lot, I cannot say. A
half hour later, I saw a flock working some crummy grass near the new
McDonald's at Norton and Henry, where seeds and insects awaited. I stopped at Tim Horton's for a cup of coffee and fve Tim Bits. I was
waiting upon by Breena, whose name means Raven in Gaelic, or so she
shared with me. This morning, I didn't see crows, but I heard them. I wonder if the
black birds have created a language out of two expressions: CAW! CAW!
and CAAW, CAAW, CAAW? As illustration, I have made use of The Twa Corbies of Arthur Rackham,
an Englishmen. Crow on a Branch by Maruyama Kyo (1733-1795) shows the
crow from an oriental perspective. It was available once from Galerie
Janette Ostier, Paris and still might be available. Although, I am not
seeing a link for this gallery. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rackham
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maruyama_%C5%8Ckyo
http://www.bridgemanart.com/search/location/Galerie-Janette-Ostier-Paris-Fran...
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