The cove below me is a land of cattails, and cattails have the ability
to purify water, a slow process. The marsh is drying, and a field of
grass has taken over a swath, starting at the marsh's center. I see a
line of trees and bushes making a slow march into the center of the
marsh. A few elder berry bushes, still bearing flower clusters that
remind me of queen anne's lace, with floral brackets of white, have
taken root. I enjoy the sight of the red-winged blackbird winging over
these blades of cattails, but I only notice the males with their black
feathers and epaulets, orange trimmed with yellow. I have never noted
the female blackbird, which has the appearance of an ordinary sparrow
to my untrained eye. The red-winged blackbird is sexually dimorphic;
the female blackbird has a stout neck. The male neck is longer,
tapering to a more aerodynamic head. I know nothing of what takes place in that marsh. The blackbird nests
are built in those cattails as low as three inches above the water. I
count dozens of blackbirds, and I miss some because I can't recognize
the females. I miss dozens more blackbirds because I can't gaze at the
marsh that long without looking back at my writing or turning my eyes
to the water, where the mallards demand my attention. So I imagine the
scores of blackbird nests and wonder if they eggs are incubating,
surviving the predation of minks, snakes, racoons. I have yet to see a
snake this summer, as if the land around me had gone Irish on me, with
an imaginary St. Patrick taking a walk through Norton Shores,
banishing milk snakes and blue racers. It would be simple to ford that shallow sandy creek and go looking in
the cattails for blackbird nests. I feel only a bad naturalist would
disturb a habitat by bombing through the bulrushes. I'll let a
naturalist at a local nature center handle the safaris for me, thank
you very much. Male blackbirds are very agonistic, and will sing a
warning song, perching sideways and flaring their wings. If necessary,
they'll go from that protective stance and mob an intruder. That's the
last thing I need after horrible news on Friday the 13th, to be pecked
to death by a mob of blackbirds. The brown cattail heads are visible, but are less visible as the wind
blows waves through the cattail patch. These heads will blow apart
into a cottony fluff and scatter the seeds later in the year. The medians of highways in Michigan accumulate enough dampness for
cattails to flourish. I always remark upon the red-winged blackbirds
that perch sideways on dried stems of these cattails in the winter,
and I spot them every thirty feet, perching, as I drive along the
highway in January and February. I know the red-winged blackbird might
be the most common bird in Michigan, and yet I am grateful I can
always spot many on a glorious summer's day or behold one on a dreary,
frigid winter's day. Musicians and poets have taken to the blackbird. Wallace Stevens wrote
a poem called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. eighth
blackbird is a musical sextet of classically trained musicians, based
in Chicago. The group takes their name from Wallace's eighth stanza. VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know. That is perfect for this afternoon's musing upon my blackbird marsh. I
had read Wallace's poem years ago, and I return to it with fresh
admiration after writing these paragraphs. A source of knowing about blackbirds:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red-winged_Blackbird Thirteen Ways to See A Blackbird. Just slip out the back, jack:
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Thirteen_Ways_of_Looking_at_a_Blackbird eighth blackbird commissions composers to write lucid, inescapable
rhythms. It is with deep regret I missed the sextet when the group
performed commissioned works with Scott Speck's West Michigan Symphony
Orchestra.
http://www.eighthblackbird.org/
http://westmichigansymphony.org/
to purify water, a slow process. The marsh is drying, and a field of
grass has taken over a swath, starting at the marsh's center. I see a
line of trees and bushes making a slow march into the center of the
marsh. A few elder berry bushes, still bearing flower clusters that
remind me of queen anne's lace, with floral brackets of white, have
taken root. I enjoy the sight of the red-winged blackbird winging over
these blades of cattails, but I only notice the males with their black
feathers and epaulets, orange trimmed with yellow. I have never noted
the female blackbird, which has the appearance of an ordinary sparrow
to my untrained eye. The red-winged blackbird is sexually dimorphic;
the female blackbird has a stout neck. The male neck is longer,
tapering to a more aerodynamic head. I know nothing of what takes place in that marsh. The blackbird nests
are built in those cattails as low as three inches above the water. I
count dozens of blackbirds, and I miss some because I can't recognize
the females. I miss dozens more blackbirds because I can't gaze at the
marsh that long without looking back at my writing or turning my eyes
to the water, where the mallards demand my attention. So I imagine the
scores of blackbird nests and wonder if they eggs are incubating,
surviving the predation of minks, snakes, racoons. I have yet to see a
snake this summer, as if the land around me had gone Irish on me, with
an imaginary St. Patrick taking a walk through Norton Shores,
banishing milk snakes and blue racers. It would be simple to ford that shallow sandy creek and go looking in
the cattails for blackbird nests. I feel only a bad naturalist would
disturb a habitat by bombing through the bulrushes. I'll let a
naturalist at a local nature center handle the safaris for me, thank
you very much. Male blackbirds are very agonistic, and will sing a
warning song, perching sideways and flaring their wings. If necessary,
they'll go from that protective stance and mob an intruder. That's the
last thing I need after horrible news on Friday the 13th, to be pecked
to death by a mob of blackbirds. The brown cattail heads are visible, but are less visible as the wind
blows waves through the cattail patch. These heads will blow apart
into a cottony fluff and scatter the seeds later in the year. The medians of highways in Michigan accumulate enough dampness for
cattails to flourish. I always remark upon the red-winged blackbirds
that perch sideways on dried stems of these cattails in the winter,
and I spot them every thirty feet, perching, as I drive along the
highway in January and February. I know the red-winged blackbird might
be the most common bird in Michigan, and yet I am grateful I can
always spot many on a glorious summer's day or behold one on a dreary,
frigid winter's day. Musicians and poets have taken to the blackbird. Wallace Stevens wrote
a poem called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. eighth
blackbird is a musical sextet of classically trained musicians, based
in Chicago. The group takes their name from Wallace's eighth stanza. VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know. That is perfect for this afternoon's musing upon my blackbird marsh. I
had read Wallace's poem years ago, and I return to it with fresh
admiration after writing these paragraphs. A source of knowing about blackbirds:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red-winged_Blackbird Thirteen Ways to See A Blackbird. Just slip out the back, jack:
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Thirteen_Ways_of_Looking_at_a_Blackbird eighth blackbird commissions composers to write lucid, inescapable
rhythms. It is with deep regret I missed the sextet when the group
performed commissioned works with Scott Speck's West Michigan Symphony
Orchestra.
http://www.eighthblackbird.org/
http://westmichigansymphony.org/
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