Photo by Pat G.
Category Archives: Trees
The Old and the Young
Stay away, Old Man
Nay, take a lesson from me
I’ll take my chances.
And so it Begins
Robbie Robin thinks of spring,
And the bounty it can bring,
In the lower elevation,
Life was like a long vacation.
Summer berries in the hills,
How delicious were these frills,
In the forests by the streams,
Food enough to fill his dreams.
Ah, but what’s that ridge of white?
Yes, it is a pretty sight,
But it means the days are chill,
And he must come off the hill.
Food is scarce, the bugs are gone,
Must be time for moving on,
Back to lower, warmer climes,
And a few more happy times.
See my friends around my table,
Eating much as we are able,
Mountain ash is loaded full,
Grab the berries and just pull.
Oh, my heavens, see the snow,
I knew I was right to go,
One more feast on berries here,
Then I’ll say, “Goodbye, my dear.”
The Lost Dress
My lovely dress of golden leaves
Is tattered now, and worn,
The wind has warned – no more reprieves,
This time the leaves get shorn.
I hold on tight with all my might,
While gusts and gales rip past,
They tear my dress, and though I fight,
I’m nearly bare at last.
I shiver and the last leaves quiver,
Hanging by a thread,
Until they loosen, blowing whither
They know not, and spread.
My golden dress is on the ground,
For all to trod upon,
And scuffing feet will swish it ’round,
While gusts blow ’til it’s gone.
It’s Dogwood Time
It’s time for the dogwoods to bloom. There are many bigger dogwood trees around, but ours is still quite small.
The robin is enjoying the spring morning sunshine while he wonders about the petal count of these flowers.
Most flowers have a number of petals that fall into the Fibonacci sequence, a mathematical sequence in which each number is the sum of the two preceding ones. So it goes like this: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144 … and it goes on forever.
Our Pacific dogwood usually has between four and six petals, so it’s different from most flowers which tend to follow the Fibonacci sequence.
Next time you’re in a flower garden, see which flowers you can find that have either 3, 5, 8, 13, or 21 petals. You’ll be surprised at what you find.
*Fibonacci sequence was used and further explored by an Italian mathematician, Leonardo Bonacci, who was called Fibonacci, possibly as a name made up from “filius Bonacci” (son of Bonacci). He was born about 1170. Yes, about 850+ years ago.
I bet he loved doing puzzles or writing code.
So what’s the next number after 144? The first nine commenters got it easily, so how about the next three numbers?
Red-breasted Sapsucker
Air is cold, I’m shivering,
Legs so skinny, quivering,
Ants or beetles, if you’re near,
Eating you would bring me cheer.
Not much sap is dripping down,
Though I’ve drilled holes all around,
Maybe though, an ant will scurry,
Running off in such a hurry.
I’ve no chocolate to coat it,
Nature simply won’t promote it,
But the crunchy flavour’s good,
With a hint of fir tree wood.
Watch me skipping round the tree,
Eating ants and bugs with glee,
Little holes, the bark endures,
Graciously, my meal ensures.
I apologize for the background noise of dogs barking and garbage trucks backing up somewhere in the world outside my own little world.
The Fate of Trees
Montana is proud of its cottonwood trees,
So tough when the weather is bold,
Steady, prevailing, along comes the breeze,
It brings northern winds and the cold.
The trunks with their lumpy bark, stem the wild winds,
The texture adds warmth to the trees,
Though winter has threatened, the sun soon rescinds
The sentence the north wind decrees.
A lonely fatality, victim of spray,
Was covered with poison by chance,
Its skeleton stands, to remind us, each day,
Its beauty was all in our hands.
The dam in its cruelty drowned every tree,
The water rose into their crown,
Decay and slow death in the newly made sea,
Leave once noble sticks breaking down.
The nuthatch is happy to drill a new nest,
Admiring a tree with such soul,
She praises the tree and says, “You are the best,
Not just a utility pole.”
As evening approaches, the cottonwoods sigh,
And whisper with shivery leaves,
The autumn is golden, but soon by and by,
They’ll run out of short-term reprieves.
A New Bird
About 100 ft. from my house stands a maple that has seen better days. The woodpeckers peck holes into the trunk, and it’s a wonder that the tree hasn’t lost more limbs in the recent windstorms.
Still, I love to see the woodpeckers, and I always have my camera handy for bird sightings. When I spotted this one on the maple this morning, I grabbed the camera and rushed out onto the deck to snap a photo. I closed the sliding door quietly.
“Please don’t fly away until I get a picture,” I whispered.
He didn’t fly away, so I snapped some more. Still he didn’t fly.
“This is great,” I thought. The squirrels were chattering noisily just then, and I assumed that the woodpecker hadn’t heard me tiptoeing out onto the deck.
But then I thought, “That’s strange. He should have flown by now. Or at least pecked at the bark. But he’s just sitting there. Maybe he’s sick.”
I brought the camera in and uploaded the photos onto the laptop. Then I could see the bird more clearly. I wasn’t sure what kind it was. Maybe not a pileated woodpecker, after all. He seemed to have morphed into something else.
A broken off branch surrounded by the maple’s tears?
The Calm
… before the storm.
The ducks all facing outward
Are waiting for their snack,
They find it in the shallows,
It makes their lips go smack.
The heron facing inward,
Has patience yet to spare,
He hopes to spear a morsel,
With no intent to share.
All take advantage of the last,
Relaxing stretch of peace,
They feel the system moving fast,
Soon comes the ugly beast.
Photo by Pat G.
The licorice scent of fennel wafts,
Along the last warm breeze,
A thousand seeds fly in the drafts,
To inundate with ease.
Ms. Barbara Beacham’s hollyhock,
Has found a home with me,
Although Ms. Beacham’s sent a shock,
And could no longer be.
Her lovely flowers bloom each year,
She sends her love that way,
I cherish her with thoughts so dear,
Much more than I can say.
A last sweet effort quickly made,
The berry patch is done,
No strawberries are left to raid,
Except for just this one.
And here it comes, the mighty beast,
So dark, this sunshine thief,
It brings much-needed rain at least,
To every plant’s relief.
It slaps the trees ferociously,
It whips the leaves around,
But they hang on tenaciously,
On hearing such a sound.
The wind is shivery at best,
Each leaf is hanging on,
They’re hoping to survive the test,
Until this breeze is gone.
Too Many Branches
I took this picture from my back (second storey) deck to show how long the branches of the fir trees have become. They almost reach the house now. The philadelphus (mock orange), on the right, has also grown up high and dense.
Our friend offered to take down some of the big lower branches. I’ve blurred his face for his privacy. He did a great job of taking those huge limbs off, but see the photo below. Dickie, the squirrel, was extremely upset.
He’s on top of the root of one of the fir trees, and we had to shoo him away so he wouldn’t get hurt.
Some of the branches that came down are pictured above, but a couple more huge ones joined them after I took this picture. Dickie came back to check on the progress and ended up hiding under the big ground-level canopy of branches.
Something crazy’s going on,
Men with noisy saws,
Gone, our quiet neighbourhood,
Must be some big cause.
One guy said, “They’re way too long,
Blocking out the light.”
Then the chain saw started up,
Gave me such a fright.
Horrible, the noise they made,
Chewing through the wood,
Branches crashing all around,
Near to where I stood.
Like flash I dashed away,
Running ’round the yard,
Now my skyway highway’s gone,
Travel will be hard.
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