Give Us This Morning Our Daily Walk
Our daily ramble in the ravine has become a lifestyle institution for us. A very personal and valued touchstone event with nature in all seasons, all kinds of weather.
There's scarcely a walk through the ravine when we don't notice something new and refreshing in the landscape that is so readily available to us; a slight walk up the street where our house is located, a slight diversion and we're then able to dip into the ravine via a long and gradual hillside. Then there appears the ravine, with its many ascents and descents, its cols and its valleys, its creek and tributaries.
Birdsong at this time of year - early spring - in the ravine can be a rapture in sound, wafting into our ears from every tree top and hosting branch. From the raucous sounds of the crows, to the high trill of the cardinal, the chorus of mimicry from the chickadees, the haunting melody of the white/black-stripe-capped Whitethroat sparrows whose bright yet lugubrious sound we recall hailing us close to dusk as we descended hills in Gatineau and mountain tops in New Hampshire. Robins, with their brightly happy trill, and the chirping of sparrows.
We're at that point where the poplars are loosing their pendulous fuzzy-white seed pods. Any slight breeze sends hundreds of bits of fluff through the air, and when we look up the sun illuminates the falling fluff as though it were yet winter and snow is falling. There is such an abundant accumulation of that poplar fluff down on the ground now that as we walk along the action of our booted feet lifts the bits of fluff high into the air. Falling poplar seeds nestle in our hair and the hair of our two little dogs.
Among the crimson trilliums - the only colour of this provincial flower that we've ever seen in the ravine - we suddenly espie a bright white trillium and can hardly believe its insouciant presence. Wherever did it erupt from, that stand-out of three-petal white perfection? It seems to us that there are fewer trilliums this year, as though those areas long familiar to us as trillium territory have been overtaken by the more vigorously clumping trout lilies, lifting their saucy bright yellow heads toward us.
As we slowly ascend another long hill, a pair of blues drift and spiral about us, alongside the pathway. This is also the time of year when dandelions look their perky best. They're in good health here amongst the other wildflowers. Detested in orderly, well-manicured lawns, they are in their honoured element here. Not native to this country, they were brought over by British immigrants as human forage for fresh greens, just as those brave settlers brought with them flower seeds and herbs to introduce into kitchen gardens in North America.
False Solomon's seal is beginning to unfurl their step-ladder leaves, just as the ferns too are beginning to unwind everywhere they've taken possession of the fertile ground. Red baneberry is already sending up its compound white floral heads. And then there are the meek yellow, stark white, wildly luscious purple, and fainter mauve violets poking about here and there in discrete and pretty clumps. Interspersed with the white-cup petals of wild strawberry plants.
Huge bumble bees rocket their way through the offerings. We've seen a few woolly-bear caterpillars labouring their way along the trail - taking care not to squish their tender bodies. Now and again Mourning Cloaks drift by, and occasionally in pairs, spiralling headily overhead before finally flitting into the trees. Staghorn sumach are slow to come to life; there's some top-notch fuzz beginning though. Hawthorne and wild apple trees are setting their darling pink-white buds of May. Already we can detect their fragrance on the air.
Lilies of the Valley cluster tightly about the feet of trees. We can already see the slight faery bells being lifted above the glistening green leaves. The Serviceberry trees are still in full bloom, appearing as cloud-clustered white blossoms huddled over dark branches. Horsetails, Indian pipe, advertise their ancient lineage; base and unlovely. And finally, the first sight of the first of those delightfully mysterious Jack-in-the Pulpits. The flowerhead with its pale green petal streaked with plum, shyly folded over itself, admiring its secret beauty.
The creek below steers itself lazily down stream. Water striders breaking the surface calm. Dragonflies flit purposefully about, tasked by nature to diminish the presence of animal-loving, offensively blood-sucking mosquitoes.
There's scarcely a walk through the ravine when we don't notice something new and refreshing in the landscape that is so readily available to us; a slight walk up the street where our house is located, a slight diversion and we're then able to dip into the ravine via a long and gradual hillside. Then there appears the ravine, with its many ascents and descents, its cols and its valleys, its creek and tributaries.
Birdsong at this time of year - early spring - in the ravine can be a rapture in sound, wafting into our ears from every tree top and hosting branch. From the raucous sounds of the crows, to the high trill of the cardinal, the chorus of mimicry from the chickadees, the haunting melody of the white/black-stripe-capped Whitethroat sparrows whose bright yet lugubrious sound we recall hailing us close to dusk as we descended hills in Gatineau and mountain tops in New Hampshire. Robins, with their brightly happy trill, and the chirping of sparrows.
We're at that point where the poplars are loosing their pendulous fuzzy-white seed pods. Any slight breeze sends hundreds of bits of fluff through the air, and when we look up the sun illuminates the falling fluff as though it were yet winter and snow is falling. There is such an abundant accumulation of that poplar fluff down on the ground now that as we walk along the action of our booted feet lifts the bits of fluff high into the air. Falling poplar seeds nestle in our hair and the hair of our two little dogs.
Among the crimson trilliums - the only colour of this provincial flower that we've ever seen in the ravine - we suddenly espie a bright white trillium and can hardly believe its insouciant presence. Wherever did it erupt from, that stand-out of three-petal white perfection? It seems to us that there are fewer trilliums this year, as though those areas long familiar to us as trillium territory have been overtaken by the more vigorously clumping trout lilies, lifting their saucy bright yellow heads toward us.
As we slowly ascend another long hill, a pair of blues drift and spiral about us, alongside the pathway. This is also the time of year when dandelions look their perky best. They're in good health here amongst the other wildflowers. Detested in orderly, well-manicured lawns, they are in their honoured element here. Not native to this country, they were brought over by British immigrants as human forage for fresh greens, just as those brave settlers brought with them flower seeds and herbs to introduce into kitchen gardens in North America.
False Solomon's seal is beginning to unfurl their step-ladder leaves, just as the ferns too are beginning to unwind everywhere they've taken possession of the fertile ground. Red baneberry is already sending up its compound white floral heads. And then there are the meek yellow, stark white, wildly luscious purple, and fainter mauve violets poking about here and there in discrete and pretty clumps. Interspersed with the white-cup petals of wild strawberry plants.
Huge bumble bees rocket their way through the offerings. We've seen a few woolly-bear caterpillars labouring their way along the trail - taking care not to squish their tender bodies. Now and again Mourning Cloaks drift by, and occasionally in pairs, spiralling headily overhead before finally flitting into the trees. Staghorn sumach are slow to come to life; there's some top-notch fuzz beginning though. Hawthorne and wild apple trees are setting their darling pink-white buds of May. Already we can detect their fragrance on the air.
Lilies of the Valley cluster tightly about the feet of trees. We can already see the slight faery bells being lifted above the glistening green leaves. The Serviceberry trees are still in full bloom, appearing as cloud-clustered white blossoms huddled over dark branches. Horsetails, Indian pipe, advertise their ancient lineage; base and unlovely. And finally, the first sight of the first of those delightfully mysterious Jack-in-the Pulpits. The flowerhead with its pale green petal streaked with plum, shyly folded over itself, admiring its secret beauty.
The creek below steers itself lazily down stream. Water striders breaking the surface calm. Dragonflies flit purposefully about, tasked by nature to diminish the presence of animal-loving, offensively blood-sucking mosquitoes.
Labels: Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:23 PM
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