wordsfromanneli

Thoughts, ideas, photos, and stories.


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What They Are Not

Lichens are weird “things.” Wiki says they “arise” from algae or cyanobacteria (bluish bacteria also known as blue-green algae). And yet lichens are not algae, as such. They live and grow among the filaments of fungi, but they are not fungi.

They come in many different colours and forms. They may look like moss, and sometimes are even called moss (reindeer moss, Iceland moss), but they are not moss.

They may look like they have tiny leaves, but they are not plants.

They have no roots to absorb water or nutrients, but they manufacture their own nutrition through photosynthesis.

When they grow on plants (like on the bark of trees) they are not parasites. They “do their own thing,” just using the plant as support.

The lichens in this photo are on a large rock near the creek mentioned in my previous post – the one that is foaming at the mouth.

 

I liken the lichen to plants,

But then I look at them askance.

The algae have similar features,

But lichen are different creatures.

 

 

Some fungi look like them a bit,

But not everything is a fit,

Although they may look like a moss,

They’re not and I feel at a loss.

 

 

Organic creations they are,

Found throughout our nations afar,

With features distinct and unique,

These grew on a rock by the creek.

 

 

So just what they are, I don’t know,

But see how they put on a show,

And next time you’re hiking or biking,

You’ll likely encounter some lichen.

 


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Foaming at the Mouth

No, it’s not a rabid animal. It’s just a creek flowing into the lake, but at its mouth, there is a lot of foam.

The frothy bubbles swirled and flowed in sweeping circles, making patterns on the lake.

This is clean, clean water, but for some reason the foam formed when the water splashed over the rocks at the mouth of the creek, and stayed frothy for quite some distance into the lake.

Foam like icing on a cake,

Lightly drifting on the lake,

Swirling, flowing, curling round,

Who knows where it may be bound?

 

Lacy curtain for a fish,

Saves him landing in a dish,

But when he jumps in the air.

Foamy mustache he will wear.


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The Olympic Diver

Evidence of long ago logging documents the size of some of the trees that used to grow around the lake. All around, lie smaller logs that have been knocked down by wind or by the annual flooding of the lake as heavy rainfall swells the feeder creeks, or snow melt causes the lake to rise.

So the lake has areas where a boater must take care to avoid half-sunken logs and deadheads.

One such deadhead was just below the surface of the lake, so some thoughtful person attached a white float marker to it as a warning to boaters. I  don’t have a photo of this marker, but it was a fair distance from shore.

I should mention that when Emma was only six months old, the Captain was walking along the banks of the Missouri River with her in Montana. Without warning, Emma jumped from the four-foot-high bank into the river. She loves the water.

So you can guess what she did as we motored along, and Emma spied the float. She must have thought it was a duck that needed to be retrieved.

A flying leap, an Olympic dive, two gasps from us in the boat!

The Captain immediately shut down the outboard motor, called his enthusiastic dog back to the boat, and hoisted her aboard. I expected to get shaken on, but what I didn’t count on was that she leaned on me on her way back to her front row seat and got my backside sopping wet before she gave me her shower.

I remember the Captain asking me then if I still loved my dog.


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Camping

A few days of R and R were in order, so we took our old trailer to a lake that was about three hours’ drive from home, and set up camp.

Once the main chores were done, I sprawled back in my lawn chair and looked up.

This is what I saw.  Although there were people camped next to us, it was quiet because they were out on the lake in their kayaks. The peacefulness of the place was a moment to treasure. On the coming long weekend, it would be much more of a party place, but for now, it was wonderfully quiet. Just the whisper of the leaves high up in those trees.

Later we would try our hand at fishing in the lake, but it was so hard to decide whether to hold the fishing rod or the camera.

Now that I’m home and it’s the weekend, I can’t help but wonder how the party is going. I bet it is noisy and a complete change from the quiet few days we spent there. Timing is everything.


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Giant Cedars

Do you see a tiny dark creature at the base of one of the forest giants? It’s Emma the Explorer.

Look at me, Anneli. I’m at the foot of the Empire State Tree. I can’t climb, and there’s no elevator. It sure looks huge from where I am. Click to make the picture bigger and maybe you’ll see me. I’m black and have a white nose.

Giant cedars standing tall,
Many here have yet to fall,
Others tumbled to the lake,
Fell so hard the earth did shake.

Still they keep their feet on shore,
Though they won't grow anymore,
Flooding waters soaked their boots,
And by force they lost their roots.

What these giant trees have seen,
Since they first began to lean,
Has a bear once scratched his hide,
On the cedar's sunny side?

Has a buck his antlers rubbed,
Losing velvet as he scrubbed?
Did an eagle perched aloft,
Make his nest there, downy soft?

Cedars lying in the lake,
Tangle trout that lures do take,
Lucky fish will break the line,
Swim away and feel just fine.

Silent sentinels await,
And one day they'll meet their fate,
Younger trees will then stand guard,
While the old ones fall down hard.

But the cycle carries on,
Wood in water will be gone,
Many seasons come and go,
And the young have room to grow.


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Location, Location, Location

A few days ago, David Kanigan posted photos of a Canada goose nesting on a dock.

https://davidkanigan.com/2021/04/20/and-the-show-goes-on/

Please visit it to see this post.

I had mixed feelings about this goose’s choice of location. It’s right out in the open, and so vulnerable to predators and the weather. I hope for, but don’t expect, a good outcome for this brood. Still, if she pulls it off and any of her goslings hatch and survive, the goose will deserve a medal for bravery and stamina.

I thought of this goose nest when the Captain came home from a trip up the BC coast, having taken pictures of a goose nest in a very remote location. This is how it should be. This goose nest is beside a river, but somehow the goose knew about rivers rising in the spring, and it has placed this nest high up out of the reach of a flooding river.

The nest is on top of this tree stump, out of sight, and out of reach of the spring run-off in a rising river. It is sheltered from aerial predators by the new growth on top of the stump.  Being up high would also give it a slight advantage over animals that might threaten it from ground level.

But even with all of the advantages the goose has with this remote nest,  it is probably at just as much risk as the town goose in David Kanigan’s blog post.

Thank you, David, for showing the city goose as compared to my country goose. I hope they both manage to bring off a nice batch of goslings.


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Golden-crowned Sparrow

Sadly, this golden-crowned sparrow is no longer with us. He hit one of my recently cleaned windows yesterday, and reminded me why I had put off cleaning them for so long. He looked so lifelike when I found him in a planter beside the front door, so I thought he deserved to be remembered as he might have been only moments before. I propped him up to sit on the snapdragon stem.

He has dirt on his beak and his feathers are a bit scruffy from his fall into the dirt, but he still looks beautiful to me, except that he’s not alive anymore. I feel really bad when I lose a bird on my windows.

Golden-crowned sparrows have a mournful song, and today I had the distinct feeling that his friends were looking for him.

If you listen to this very short video clip, you’ll hear his friends calling for him, saying, “Where are you? … I’m so alone.”

I heard that awful sound again,

A bird has hit the window pane.

Emma perked up at the sound,

Barked and stood up, looked around.

 

On the landing it was clear,

No dead birds, not far, not near.

Maybe he survived, I thought,

Just a headache he has got.

 

Later as I watered flowers,

Wanting to avoid the showers,

I looked down to place my feet,

When I saw this bird so sweet.

 

Feeling faint, I lifted him,

Knowing that his chance was slim,

Broken-hearted, I could see,

No more would he sing for me.

 

Beautiful, he looked in life,

Wonder if he had a wife,

Soon I heard her calling sweet,

Hoping that her love she’d meet.

 

One last perch upon a stem,

Such a beauty, such a gem,

As his soul wings high above

We’ll remember him with love.


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Nuts About Nuts

Ooh! Look what I found! Hee, hee. I knew I had some good ones stashed from last year.

Now to get into it without breaking a tooth.

Oh, yum!

Here’s the best part.

Bit stale … yup … that’s a last year’s for sure. “Best before” date’s been and gone.

Urrrrp!  Hmm … starting to get a bit of a tummy ache.

Oh, what the heck. Might as well finish it.

One more bite. C’mon, Lincoln. You can do it.

Groan … anybody got any Gaviscon? Tums?

I’m nuts about nuts,

But they get to my guts,

And then I don’t feel so good.

 

 

With trees everywhere,

We can easily share,

There’s lots in my neighbourhood.

 

 

I eat the nutmeat,

It’s the tastiest treat,

But eating too much is not nice.

 

 

So high on my list,

Nuts are hard to resist,

See, even a squirrel has his vice.

*****

Writers, please visit my other blog for “no pressure” writing tips.

https://annelisplace.wordpress.com/2021/04/17/the-truth-you-dont-need/


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Hunting the Hunter

Quentin has been hanging out on the landing, looking at himself in the glass panel beside the front door. I think he thinks that reflection he sees is another quail in the house.

He must be wondering why the other quail isn’t coming out. He is so desperately hunting for others of his kind, especially if one were a female.

But he isn’t the only one who is hunting.

As I looked through the upstairs window to see if Quentin was still on the landing below, I saw, not a quail, but a quail hunter.

GASP! That’s not a quail. I ran for the camera and turned it on as I hurried across the room, hoping this predator hadn’t flown away by the time I returned. I know they are very wary.

This one was tiptoeing along the path, checking behind every little twig for the dinner of his dreams.

I was snapping pictures through the window with the zoom on because I didn’t dare go any closer lest he fly, so all these pictures are a bit “window-ish” and not the best clarity. But it was enough to identify the fellow as a sharp-shinned hawk, a very close lookalike to the Cooper’s hawk.

Moments later, he flew away.

The nearby birdfeeders were absolutely silent. No birds around. Not a peep!