The Moon of My Belonging -- by Elizabeth Ayres

Who can lay claim to the moon? Despite the footsteps imprinted in her dust and the flags hanging limp above her windless surface, the moon belongs to all humankind. So says the United Nations in a 1967 treaty which forbids individual nations from appropriating parts of the moonscape, but fails to exclude private ownership. A surprising number of people have tried to take advantage of this loophole, insisting on their right to buy, sell, swap or otherwise profit from an exchange of extraterrestrial real estate. You laugh? So did I. But then the sadness kicked in: human nature at its avaricious worst.

Quick! Make a list of book or song or movie titles with the word ‘moon’ in them. This chunk of lifeless rock carries our hearts and longings with her on her 28 day journey. She governs our plantings and our thievings, our emotions and our tides. Earth spins round and round. Earth’s oceans spin round and round. Heaping up towards the moon, emptying out away from the moon. Increasing with her light, diminishing with her strength. High tide, low tide. Lunar push, lunar pull.

Through my lifetime I have known three moons. In New York City I could hardly find her among the street lights. Amidst the ebb and flow of traffic and ambition, what power could the moon possess?

moon and statue of Liberty, photo by Steven Pinker

In the high desert of northern New Mexico, the moon was sterling silver in an onyx sky.

 

NM moon, photographer unidentified, in travelpod

I gauged her size with words I’d formerly reserved for olives: gargantuan, colossal, mammoth. She gave me a house of baked clay. Plunked me down in a barren, cratered landscape uncannily like her own: the white sandstone of Plaza Blanca. Flecked with silver mica. Pocked with ancient rocks. Even at her first quarter, the very ground swelled with light. By the full, I who had once dismissed the moon learned my own insignificance.

Now I live in St. Mary’s County, which juts into the Bay across three rivers like a long narrow pier. The sky is a blue-black mussel shell; the moon, its mother-of-pearl glow. Rising over our rippled, wavering waters, she sees herself reflected in a thousand silver chips. Hears herself discussed in a thousand conversations: between soft night breezes and sea grass; murmuring insects and creaking pines; dry leaves and prowling critters; waves and the foam-gilt shore.

moon over Chesapeake, photo: Aaron Denu

This is her family. She is at home here. Her magnetic fingers twine throughout our countryside, pulling at our rivers, tugging at our creeks. At the syzygy, the new and the full, the moon’s face turns directly on us and we receive the abundant spring tides. At the quadrature, when her face slants away, our neap tides are scanty. More reliable than any legal contract, these risings and fallings. A treasure continually replenishing itself. An inheritance beyond price.Who can lay claim to the moon? In my lifetime I have known three. This last, over southern Maryland, is the moon of my belonging. I give it to you.

***

from Elizabeth Ayres' latest book, Invitation to Wonder: A Journey Through the Seasons. Her Center for Creative Writing is now in its 20th year. She is also the creator of Writing the Wave, Know the Way and two Sounds True audio albums.

Fièvre d'essaimage, mai 2010 -- par Noëlle De Roo Lemos

Après cinq ou six semaines de froidure, le temps s'est finalement mis au beau. Nous sommes à la mi-mai. Du côté de l'étang, bernaches, becs scie, oiseaux migrateurs, tout un petit monde ailé s'agite autour des nids et des nichoirs. Plus près de la maison, les pommiers achèvent leur floraison. Pour un temps, à partir de maintenant, les fleurs vont se raréfier et, d'ici la prochaine miellée (production de miel allant de pair avec une importante floraison), les abeilles vont devoir se rabattre sur leurs réserves.

photos N. Lemos
Un bourdonnement inhabituel et une nuée d'abeilles faisant du sur-place devant les plateaux d'envol annoncent le début de la saison des essaimages.

On dit qu'il y a essaimage quand une colonie se divise en deux populations distinctes. D'un côté, l'essaim qui, aussitôt constitué, s'envole et se met généralement en grappe. De l'autre, les abeilles qui restent dans la ruche mère. On attribue le plus souvent ce phénomène à des conditions de congestion à l'intérieur de cette dernière. Nous aurions probablement pu l'éviter si les vérifications d'usage, les jours précédents, avaient pu être faites. La perte d'un essaim, dans la mesure où elle entraîne une diminution importante du nombre des butineuses, peut en effet sérieusement affecter la production de miel. Mais le froid des semaines précédentes a empêché toute visite.

Ruches à gauche, en contrebas de la maison

Présentement deux ruches sont en pleine révolution. Une fièvre les a saisies qui s'empare de nous également. Sans un mot et d'un commun accord, Pedro et moi sommes déjà en train de tout mettre en oeuvre pour les capturer. Qu'est-ce qui nous motive? Bien plus que des considérations techniques (pas même celle, comme il a été de tradition chez des générations d'apiculteurs, de vouloir augmenter le nombre de nos ruches), c'est un je ne sais quoi d'excitant, de motivant, qui nous pousse à agir ainsi. Nous sommes là, en plein milieu d'une nuée d'abeilles qui, bercée par le vent, oscille tantôt à droite, tantôt à gauche, tantôt droit sur nous. Une sorte d'atavisme nous entraîne à l'action.

Grappe avant l'envol

Pour s'emparer d'un essaim il faut savoir que ce dernier, après être resté un certain temps à faire du sur-place devant sa ruche, au moment de quitter, ne va jamais très loin. Les abeilles se rassemblent en grappe, à proximité, jusqu'à ce que les éclaireuses trouvent l'abri idéal, tronc d'arbre évidé ou autre, pour les accueillir. C'est à ce moment-là que l'apiculteur a quelques chances de les capturer. Il importe également de se dire qu'on n'est jamais en possession d'un essaim tant que la reine elle même nous échappe.

Essaim pénétrant dans la hausse

Posé en grappe tout en haut d'un tronc d'aubépine, le premier essaim a commencé, dans un premier temps, par accepter la ruchette mise à sa disposition en haut d'une échelle.

Pedro l'apiculteur heureux
À notre grande satisfaction, une longue procession d'abeilles a commencé à s'y introduire. Mais alors que nous croyions la partie gagnée, la fièvre les a reprises et, à nouveau, ce fut le départ. Pour le principe, nous avons encore un peu couru après elles mais cette fois-ci, elles nous ont quittés à jamais. La ruchette était-elle trop petite pour cette imposante grappe d'abeilles?

Pas de temps pour des regrets, cependant, car le second essaim exige présentement de notre part une intervention immédiate. Et cette fois-ci, cela se présente mieux, à la fourche d'une branche au bas d'un pommier. Une hausse à terre, un coup sec pour secouer la branche et voilà le gros de la grappe qui tombe à l'intérieur. La lente procession du restant des abeilles vers le nouvel habitacle signifie que la reine est déjà dedans. Nous pouvons commencer à respirer et, beaucoup plus tard, une fois les abeilles calmées elles aussi, nous les transportons dans le rucher à côté des autres colonies.

Les essaims sont de formidables producteurs de cire. Ils ont avec eux un très grand nombre d'abeilles "cirières" capables de construire des rayons en un temps record. En milieu sauvage, ce travail fournit à la reine des alvéoles lui permettant de pondre aussitôt et aux ouvrières de l'espace pour emmagasiner le miel. Grâce à cela, l'essaim a la possibilité de renouveler sa population avant que les abeilles arrivées avec la reine ne meurent. Cette capacité à faire rapidement de la cire peut être mise à profit par l'apiculteur qui a capturé des essaims pour lui permettre de reconstituer son stock de cadres. Notre matériel de réserve étant au plus bas en ce début de saison, ce succès remporté auprès du second essaim vient à point nommé.

Toutes ces courses de droite et de gauche, toutes ces acrobaties ont finalement eu une raison d'être technique.

*****

Voir aussi Louis-Gilles Francoeur au Devoir 29 mai 2010 "Est-ce la fin des abeilles? L'agriculture menace un insecte dont elle a pourtant besoin"

Explore the desert -- by Dick Grossman

This column from the Durango Herald is reprinted with the author's permission.

It’s spring and mud season at home. What a great time to explore the desert!

Utah is one of our favorite places for spring and fall. Often we head out with no specific destination in mind: I drive and my wife leafs through our tattered copy of Canyon Hiking Guide to the Colorado Plateau to find a route appropriate to our speed and time available.

Slickrock above Bluff UT: LAMountaineers

Now that we are in our sixties we have been concentrating on the area around Bluff. Recapture Lodge, a well-established motel there, is happy to house us and our dog. Last spring Gail drove while I slept off a busy night on call. After a long rest in a comfortable bed and a self-service breakfast, we were ready to clamber on slickrock.

Comb Ridge seen from 36000 feet: OK-Cleek

Comb Ridge, a few miles west of Bluff, is slickrock at its best. A monocline or upthrusting of sandstone layers, its overall angle is steep enough to be interesting but not too formidable to climb. Erosion has cut the ridge into a toothy comb shape and formed many canyons and irregularities that make clambering fun. The gritty sandstone provides good traction for scrambling on steep surfaces.

There are many places to explore, but few formal trails. We usually drive along the Butler Wash road, park and look for a way across the wash.
Comb Ridge and wash: Lynn Sessions

Typically we make a big loop, going to the top of one of the teeth of the comb. The views there are amazing and the drop of a thousand feet to Comb Wash is breath taking. We descend by another route. Part of the challenge of these hikes is not getting trapped by too tall a drop-off. Another challenge is finding the car on the way back. It has a way of disappearing in the terrain’s creases.

About the only signs of human habitation are Ancestral Puebloan ruins and rock art. It is a mystery why these people abandoned the Four Corners region. One widely held theory is that they used up the resources—killed the deer, cut down all the trees, harvested the edible plants. Food was so scarce that they turned to violence and raiding neighbors. In any case, the survivors moved on to another, unspoiled area.

cryptobiotic soil: by gardengeek

We are careful to avoid walking on cryptobiotic soil. This biological frosting appears dark and irregular, as opposed to the smooth surface of blown sand. A delicate mixture of cyanobacteria (blue-green algae), mosses, lichens and other living things, it helps stabilize the sandy soil that would otherwise erode from the wind and rare rain. Close to the bottom of the Ridge the hooves of careless cattle have destroyed most of this coating.

When we are lucky to be in the desert shortly after rain, we delight in finding the moss green. Brown when dry, it takes just a few seconds after water hits for this simple plant to turn green. If you don’t believe me, try giving some dry moss a drink.

We like to examine the potholes that collect what meager precipitation may fall. We kneel down beside the pools to search for their miniature animal life—insect larvae, diving beetles, or many segmented copepods. Many species that live in the desert are specially adapted to their dry environment. For instance, the tadpoles of rapidly developing spadefoot toads may swim in some of the larger puddles

These amphibians go through their life cycle unusually rapidly because water doesn’t last long in the desert. The adult toads burrow down in sand and wait for rain. They sense precipitation not by its moisture but by the vibrations it makes when it hits the ground, and by the associated thunder. The spadefoots emerge from as far as a meter underground and mate in the transient puddles. Their eggs and tadpoles must develop into adults quickly before the pools dry up.

Most of all, I love the pothole gardens that form when plants grow in depressions filled with sand and organic matter. Some are tiny, with just one plant or stunted tree. Others contain complete ecosystems with a selection of plants and maybe a mouse burrow. These gardens hold a mystery for me, that apparently has never been studied scientifically. Do they obey the biological rule that the number of species on an island varies with the island’s size?

Comb Ridge after rain: zimbio.com

We are fortunate to have so huge an area of varied desert to explore so close to home. Although it may appear barren at first, the desert contains much diversity and some unsolved mysteries.

References:
Los Alamos Mountaineers, Upper Ticaboo and Bluff Explorations
Lynn Sessions, Comb Ridge and the Posey Trail
Ned Eddins Hole in the Rock
Zimbio.com Comb Ridge (5 posts)
Healthyhomegardening.com Cryptobiotic Soil
The Anasazi in Wikipedia; and climate change, Scientific American 5 Oct 01

Le nourrissement de printemps - Journal d'une apicultrice -- par Noëlle De Roo Lemos

Grand bec scie femelle toute mignonne avec sa petite houppe rousse savamment décoiffée
Fin de semaine de Pâques, il fait beaucoup trop chaud (29°C à l'ombre). Si cela continue ainsi et que le gel se réinstalle, la floraison de printemps est compromise. Et qui dit floraison compromise dit miellée (récolte de nectar et de miel) menacée. Ce fut le cas l'an dernier, pour une bonne partie de la saison d'été d'ailleurs. Par contre, on va pouvoir ouvrir les ruches aujourd'hui et s'assurer que tout va bien (ne jamais le faire si la température est inférieure à 15°C). Vue du dehors, l'activité des ruches est excellente depuis plusieurs jours.

Mais quelles surprises nous réserve l'intérieur après tous ces mois d'hiver? Une à une, celles-ci doivent être soigneusement inspectées: la reine pond-elle de façon régulière et satisfaisante? y a t-il des réserves de pollen et de miel suffisantes pour faire face aux besoins en ce début de saison? des maladies se sont-elles installées? C'est que nous allons voir.

vieux cadre: courtoisie de beeanonymous

Nous profiterons également de ces manipulations pour enlever les vieux cadres dont la cire, presque noire, peut être une source de problèmes (entre autres de maladies). Nous les remplacerons par des cadres neufs.

Bon, tout s'est bien passé. Les abeilles sont en forme. Les informations recueillies sont soigneusement retranscrites dans un petit cahier et nous serviront pour la prochaine visite. Il ne nous reste plus, à présent, qu'à les nourrir.

Le nourrissement: photo Lemos

Or c'est la première fois, depuis nos débuts en apiculture, que nous prenons une telle décision. Étant donné un début de saison hors normes (chaleurs nettement prématurées) nous cherchons ainsi à nous assurer qu'elles tiendront jusqu''à ce que les fleurs fassent leur apparition. Nous préparons à cet effet un sirop qui consiste en un mélange sucre/eau, dans une proportion un tiers/deux tiers, que nous distribuons dans des flacons d'à peu près un litre. Cette opération pourra être répétée deux fois par semaine tant que le besoin se fera sentir. C'est ce qu'on appelle le "nourrissement" de printemps.

Voilà pour les abeilles. Et que se passe-t-il du côté de l'étang en contrebas? Et bien, il semble que des bernaches aient déjà fait leur nid. La femelle n'a pas encore pondu, mais les ébats auxquels nous assistons nous font croire que c'est pour bientôt. Les voilà qui pourchassent un couple de passage qui menace leur territoire. La femelle se joint au mâle dans ces tentatives, réussies d'ailleurs, d'intimidation.

Bec scie couronné mâle

On voit également des canards se promener par groupes de trois, une femelle pour deux mâles. Ce sont trois colverts et trois Harles couronnés (également Becs scie couronné ou Lophodyte cucullatus) qui ont récemment fait leur apparition. Un couple de Grands harles (Grand bec-scie ou Mergus merganser) a, pour sa part, déjà fait son choix parmi les nichoirs que Pedro a installés. La pariade bat son plein.

Et des coyotes hurlent la nuit avec une telle intensité (au point de nous réveiller) qu'on en déduit que le temps des amours a bien commencé de ce côté là également. La nature, dans son ensemble, semble s'être donné le mot pour se faire belle et intéressante.

Pasqueflower resurrection

Prairie crocus and the Peace River: photo by Nick, Fort St. John BC, courtesy of UBC Botanical Garden
First to appear, the prairie crocus (anemone patens) can grow through ice. To those of us who have lived amid the harsh weather of the Great Plains, it is a sign of hope and rebirth. That is probably how it earned the name Pasqueflower, one of many Easter blooms that symbolize resurrection.

Doug Collicutt writes in Nature North: It always warms my heart to stroll along the trails amid last year’s brown grasses and glimpse the mauve petals and bright yellow centers of prairie crocuses staring up at me. After months of cold and snow, they truly are the harbingers of spring. It’s no wonder that the first peoples and then the pioneers had such affection for this plant. The petals act like a parabolic reflector concentrating the sun’s rays at the flower center. The thick coat of tiny hairs covering the flower help to hold in this warmth. The center of a crocus flower, containing the reproductive parts, can be 10°C above the surrounding air temperatures. There are advantages to flowering early in spring, but there is a down-side, too. The crocus gains the full attention of available pollinators, and its seeds ripen so early that they can be dispersed and start to grow right away. Of course, the main drawback is the potential to get caught by a severe frost [which] can damage them and eliminate seed production for that year... please don’t dig them up from the wild. They have deep root systems and don’t transplant well, and anywhere they still grow must be good native prairie which should always be left alone.

The Lakota have a prairie crocus song (probably the "prairie smoke", aka "old man's whiskers", geum triflorum):

Hoksj-Cekpa Wahca (baby's navel plant)

Firstborn, I sing hope to children of other flower nations now appearing.
When they wake up and rise from Mother Earth, I stand here old and greyhaired.

Prairie Smoke: photo courtesy Prairiemoon

See also: Wikipedia on Pasque flower; USDA on geum triflorum; more stories and photos in Nature North.

Mais où donc se cache le pollen? Journal d'une apicultrice -- par Noëlle De Roo Lemos

Mi-Mars. Le temps s'est considérablement radouci et la neige autour des ruches est presque entièrement disparue. Pedro et moi vaquons en toute tranquillité à divers travaux printaniers autour de la maison tandis que de nouveaux arrivants s'ébattent bruyamment, en contrebas, du côté de l'étang.

Ce sont des bernaches (Branta canadensis) qui viennent d'arriver de leurs quartiers d'hiver dans le Sud. Comme à chaque année, elles viennent nicher chez nous. En ce moment même, le mâle pourchasse à grands cris un groupe de congénères qui cherche à s'approprier le territoire tandis que la femelle assiste, tranquille en apparence. Manoeuvres d'intimidation, coups de bec et voilà les envahisseurs en déroute.

Harle huppé mâle

Un Harle huppé (aussi appelé Bec scie à poitrine rousse ou Mergus serrator) de même qu'un couple de colverts (malards ou Anas platyrhynchos) se sont également pointés. Mais ils n'ont fait qu’un tour et probablement reviendront-ils plus tard. Pour qui vit en pleine zone de nidification les surprises sont constantes.
Colvert
La nature, en plein éveil, fait fi des calendriers. Tout comme les abeilles qui célèbrent le printemps depuis une dizaine de jours déjà. Justement, il est grand temps d'aller leur rendre visite. Comme de raison elles rentrent et sortent des ruches dans un vrombissement perpétuel. Je ne puis m'empêcher d'aller regarder d'un peu plus près le plateau d'envol mais... se peut-il que, dans ce foisonnement étourdissant d'allées et de venues, elles soient déjà en train de rentrer du pollen? Malgré la température clémente, cela me paraît nettement prématuré.

On dit du pollen que c'est le steak des abeilles.Riche en protéines, il va servir à l'alimentation des larves qui en dépendent pour leur développement. Grâce à un appétit féroce elles deviendront, en près de trois semaines, de jeunes et vigoureuses abeilles. Le pollen consiste en des petits grains, collectés sur les étamines des certaines fleurs, que les butineuses emmagasinent dans des petits sacs, ou pelotes, situés sur leurs pattes postérieures. Alors, pas de doute, c'est bien du pollen qu'elles traînent avec elles à l'intérieur de la ruche.
Abeille transportant du pollen
Comme pour les oies, comme pour les canards, nous sommes incontestablement en avance cette année. Cela veut dire que les reines se préparent à pondre ou, même, qu'elles ont déjà commencé à le faire. Cela veut dire encore que la vie de ces courageuses et infatigables petites ouvrières qui butinent en ce moment afin d'assurer la relève va bientôt prendre fin. Elles auront traversé tout l'hiver et permis à leurs reines de rester bien au chaud, une existence exceptionnellement longue si l'on considère que la durée de vie d'une abeille, en temps normal, n’est que de cinq à six semaines. Leur temps achève. Une jeune génération s'apprête indubitablement à reprendre le flambeau.

Mais où donc se cache le pollen? Il faut absolument découvrir d'où provient cette manne. À deux, nous partons faire le tour des saules, l'une des premières sources dans notre coin, des noisetiers et des érables, autres sources généreuses. Le résultat est peu probant. Les aulnes, peut être? Mais non, malgré des bourgeons bien apparents, le pollen n'est pas au rendez-vous. Notre promenade se poursuit au delà des nos frontières et bientôt nous frappons à la porte de nos voisins. Tous, Fabienne, Georges ou Ghislaine partagent fraternellement notre interrogation. Ils sont cependant incapables de nous venir en aide. Où est le pollen? Probablement dans des recoins protégés au micro-climat plus avantageux. Nos abeilles, grâce à leurs ailes, peuvent facilement parcourir deux, trois kilomètres. Nos jambes, elles, n'en feront pas autant aujourd’hui. Nous décidons de rentrer, bredouilles peut-être, mais heureux.

*****

Vidéos: la migration des bernaches nonnettes, de Dieppe vers le Groenland, tirée du film de Jacques Perrin Le peuple migrateur / Winged Migration. Voir aussi la magnifique sequence du début, tourné d'une hélicoptère, du nouveau film/DVD de Sylvie van Brabant, Visionnaires planétaires, où les oies blanches passent le fleuve Saint-Laurent en migration vers l'arctique.

The Waters of March in Quebec and Brazil -- by Mary Soderstrom, Tom Jobim & Elis Regina

Mary Soderstrom's blog Recreating Eden is a constant delight. Here are some samples:

13 March: Once upon a time this stream ran down the north side of Mount Royal to pool in Outremont, forming bogs which have since been transformed into Outremont and Saint Viateur parks. Now it runs through concrete pipe for some of its route, but in places it still sees the light of day. The photo was taken in Mount Royal cemetery where it is allowed to meander a bit. This morning, despite temperatures below freezing, there was no ice on it as it burbled away. More signs of spring.

16 March: Snowdrops in the front yard. When these started to show their heads a week ago, I was delighted to see that they've spread. Another triumph of Darwinian gardening! (That is: what will grow, will grow. Won't won't, we won't worry about.)

3 March: The first time I heard the excellent song "The Waters of March" by Tom Jobim, the rushing streams of spring were what I thought of, but now I realize that the waters referred to are really the fall rains after the Brazilian summer. Peu importe, as they say around here. It's a great song and very appropriate.
[Sung by Elis Regina (1945-82) -- nicknamed "furacão" ("hurricane") and "pimentinha" ("little pepper") -- Brazil's equivalent of Billie Holiday. Jobim's musical structure echoes the downward flow of drops, streams, gathering into rivers: the end of a season or a life, and the promise of renewal. - Ed.]

Lyrics

Águas de Março É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho É um resto de toco, é um pouco sozinho É um caco de vidro, é a vida, é o sol É a noite, é a morte, é o laço, é o anzol É peroba do campo, é o nó da madeira Caingá candeia, é o matita-pereira É madeira de vento, tombo da ribanceira É o mistério profundo, é o queira ou não queira É o vento ventando, é o fim da ladeira É a viga, é o vão, festa da cumeeira É a chuva chovendo, é conversa ribeira Das águas de março, é o fim da canseira É o pé, é o chão, é a marcha estradeira Passarinho na mão, pedra de atiradeira É uma ave no céu, é uma ave no chão É um regato, é uma fonte, é um pedaço de pão É o fundo do poço, é o fim do caminho No rosto o desgosto, é um pouco sozinho É um estrepe, é um prego, é uma ponta, é um ponto É um pingo pingando, é uma conta, é um conto É um peixe, é um gesto, é uma prata brilhando É a luz da manhã, é o tijolo chegando É a lenha, é o dia, é o fim da picada É a garrafa de cana, o estilhaço na estrada É o projeto da casa, é o corpo na cama É o carro enguiçado, é a lama, é a lama É um passo, é uma ponte, é um sapo, é uma rã É um resto de mato, na luz da manhã São as águas de março fechando o verão É a promessa de vida no teu coração É uma cobra, é um pau, é João, é José É um espinho na mão, é um corte no pé São as águas de março fechando o verão, É a promessa de vida no teu coração É pau, é pedra, é o fim do caminho É um resto de toco, é um pouco sozinho São as águas de março fechando o verão, É a promessa de vida no teu coração É um passo, é uma ponte, é um sapo, é uma rã É um belo horizonte, é uma febre terçã São as águas de março fechando o verão É a promessa de vida no teu coração pau, pedra, fim do caminho resto de toco, pouco sozinho (bis) São as águas de março fechando o verão É a promessa de vida no teu coração.

The Waters of March A stick, a stone, It's the end of the road, It's the rest of a stump, It's a little alone It's a sliver of glass, It is life, it's the sun, It is night, it is death, It's a trap, it's a gun A pink plank of peroba A knot in the wood, A fox in the brush, The song of a thrush The wood of the wind, A cliff, a fall, A mysterious yearning Or nothing at all It's the wind blowing free, It's the end of the slope, It's a beam, it's a void, It's a hunch, it's a hope And the rain rains down And the river bank talks Of the promise of Spring Of the joy in your heart. The foot, the ground, The flesh and the bone, The beat of the road, A slingshot's stone. It's a bird in the sky It's a bird in the bush It's a buy, it's a gush. It's a morsel of bread. The bed of the well, The end of the line, Dismay in the face, At a little pain. A spear, a spike, A point, a nail, A drip, a drop, A story, a tale It`s a fish, it's a flash In the soft shining light, A truckload of bricks At the end of the night. It's a league, it's a day The end of a bite, It's a bottle of booze And a thorn in the foot. The plan of a house, A body in bed, And the car that got stuck In the mud, it's the mud. It's a step, it's a road, It's a frog, it's a toad, It's a bit of weed left In the morning light. And the waters of March Say the summer's end, Of the promise of life Of the joy in your heart. A snake, a stick, It is John, it is Joe, It's a thorn in your hand and a cut in your toe And the waters of March Say the summer's end, Of the promise of life Of the joy in your heart. It's a stick, it's a stone, It's the end of the line What remains of a touch, Of a little pain. And the waters of March Say the summer's end, Of the promise of life Of the joy in your heart. It's a step, it's a road, It's a frog, it's a toad, It's a sky clearing, It's a fever breaking. And the waters of March Say the summer's end, Of the promise of life Of the joy in your heart. Stick, stone, End of the line, Remains of a touch, A little pain. (Repeat) And the waters of March Say the summer's end, Of the promise of life Of the joy in your heart.

*****

Mary Soderstrom’s blog Recreating Eden continues the themes of her books The Walkable City (2009), Green City: People, Nature & Urban Places (2007), and Recreating Eden: A Natural History of Botanical Gardens (2006). She has published several novels including The Violets of Usambara (2008). She lives in Montreal.

Le peuple migrateur / Storks, spring in Bulgaria

un montage de lionriver

des images du film de Jacques Perrin Le peuple migrateur / Winged Migration © Sony, sur une musique de Bruno Coulais chantée par les bulgares du Bulgarka Junior Quartet

Les oiseaux, savent ! ..... où ils doivent aller !
Les oiseaux, savent ! ..... où ils peuvent aller !

Nous, nous ne le savons pas !

Why we winter our bees outside -- by Noëlle De Roo Lemos (Madame Miel)

First week of March. Temperatures are rising, snow starts to melt. Maybe today our bees will feel like getting out of their winter semi-lethargy to savour the open air.

As I told you previously, our colonies winter outside, carefully wrapped for protection. This technique, unlike the rest of Canada, is somehow not too popular in Quebec.. But it works for them, and for us. First of all, leaving the bees outside is practically time and cost free. No need to transport them inside, no need for investments in ventilation and refrigeration. Secondly, their spring development is quicker. As daylight increases, queen bees start laying eggs sooner. And we think wintering outside makes them generally stronger. We like them to venture out, sun and weather permitting, to cleanse their guts. The snow around the hives is sprinkled with little yellow dots. Bee poop. It's charming, and good for them.
But even if colonies thrive through winter, they may still die before summer. Spring is a crucial time for bees. All sorts of ailments may potentially affect them; they can die from a shortage of honey, from lack of brood due to inefficient or absent queens. This is why, as soon as the temperature rises to 15° C (around 60°F) beekeepers have to check the hive and take quick action.

In early March such actions are premature. It is important however, to allow easy circulation on the bottom board. This is why with a small stick I clean out debris or dead bees that obstruct the entrance. I also slightly lift the winter packings that partially shade them. Let the sun shine in!

As I step backwards to enjoy the scenery, a small bee alights on the zipper of my yellow anorak. She slowly climbs, leaving behind four little yellow droppings. She carefully cleans her back legs before flying away. Absorbed watching my visitor, I hardly noticed that her partners have flocked outside -- in a burst of life! There is excitement in the air. Lilliputian dancers start performing a ballet, to the rhythm of their buzzing song: "The Rite of Spring". My day is made!

Laughing, crying, living, dying: two poems

from the conference Sense and Sustainability, U de Montréal, March 2009.

The Art of Walking - by Michael Mirolla. Published in Penumbra, Vol. 15 (2005).

The roadkill rises, eyes rimmed in red.
The racoons, the rabbits, the rats. And you.
We dwell on the edge of somewhere. Like angels perhaps
flirting between possibilities. Like angels maybe
licking each other’s wounds.
A gaunt cow stands knee deep
in a sub-divided field. Stares out in the fervent hope
of slaughterhouse. That quick clean cut to the jugular.
Here, the signs come fast and furious.
Oops! You’ve just missed Camelot.
An exclusive enclave. For the millionaire. In each of us.
Sheep manure for sale. By appointment only.
Call Art.
The highway leans hard into the wind, its dull roar
like a grinding machine for the future. It spits out
godliness
detached housing
luminosity
evergreen rugs.
One-legged flamingos stalking the elusive fast-food wrapper.
Cars snapping at the heels of brittle corn stalks.
The highway leans hard into the wind. Behind it,
civilization’s stubborn convoy.
Impressions of faces against taut plastic.
Crucifixes around the necks of mourning doves.
Vacuum-sealed.
In the distance,
The hills continue to ovulate.
The trees strain against their leashes.
The windmills ride off half-cocked.
The snakes, the skunks, the squirrels are rising. And you.
We live on the edge of nowhere.
In a quiet cul de sac.
We reside on the edge of nowhere.
In a quiet cul de sac.
The sign at the end of the street:
Roadkill ahead.

Michael Mirolla is a Montreal-Toronto corridor poet novelist, and playwright. He has published two novels, Berlin and The Boarder, collected short stories, The Formal Logic of Emotion (an Italian translation is forthcoming) and Hothouse Loves & Other Tales, and poetry, Light And Time; bilingual English-Italian poems Interstellar Distances/Distanze Interstellari are forthcoming. His short story, “A Theory of Discontinuous Existence,” was selected for The Journey Prize Anthology; another short story, “The Sand Flea,” won first prize in the Arkansas College Media Association Convention and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His short fiction and poetry has been published in numerous journals in Canada, the U.S. and Britain, including several anthologies such as Event’s Peace & War Anthology, Telling Differences: New English Fiction from Quebec, Tesseracts 2: Canadian Science Fiction, the Collection of Italian-Canadian Fiction, and New Wave of Speculative Fiction Book 1.

A Funeral Song for Magda July 3, 1922 - February 16, 2005
- by Ilona Martonfi

On a bitter February day
a light snow falling,
mother is the blue sky.
Bare catalpa tree:
seed pods rattle in the wind
in my blind sister’s backyard.

Mother is the water
washing her daughters’ hair.
Laughing and crying,
in my blind sister’s kitchen.

Mother is the body I carry,
twelve white roses and baby’s breath.

Silver grey hearse.
Cars and lorries pull over:
a small-town tradition.
Cornstalks and funeral flags.

Mother is the railway crossing:
a cemetery on the right.
Six pallbearers and requiem choir.
Purple glass bead rosary.
A Hail Mary full of grace,
in my blind sister’s voice.

Mother is the empty room
we didn’t enter for ten days,
in my blind sister’s house.

This poem by Ilona Martonfi first appeared in Vallum Spirit 5:2, (2007), forthcoming in poetry book, Blue Poppy, (Montreal : Coracle Press, 2009). Her publications include a Coracle Press chapbook, Visiting the Ridge (2004), poems in Fiddlehead, Vallum, Carte Blanche, Carve, Bibliosofia (Italy), Accenti, Arcade, Headlight Anthology, Soliloquies, Helios, Montreal Serai, Fire With Water, Poets Against The War, Fruits Of The Branch: A Montreal Branch CAA Anthology, and Sun Through the Blinds: Haiku Today. Finalist in 2007 Quebec Writing Competition. Published story, “My Daughter, Marisa,” in CBC Story Anthology III, In Other Words: New English Writing from Quebec (Véhicule Press, 2008). Poet, editor, creative writing teacher. Founder, producer/host of The Yellow Door and Visual Arts Centre Poetry and Prose Readings. Co-founder, producer/host of the annual "Lovers & Others".

Abenaki spring song / Tire d’érable abénaki

American robin by hikerboy45

Traditionally, Nicole O’Bomsawin tells us, the solitude of the winter camps ended in the maple groves where all the women of the Abenaki would collect the sap, singing 400 at a time, a special song with liquid syllables. With spring breakup, the people could now paddle along the “road that moves” to the rendezvous. Rivers are the blood of Mother Earth, the land her body, the sap her milk. And crystallized maple sugar was a eucharist, to be traded for other particular gifts of the Creator, at the sacred truce points: Tadoussac, Trois Rivières, Hochelaga.

Abenaki petrogpyphs, Vermont by aspergillus_n

Selon Nicole O'Bomsawin, dans la tradition des abénakis, la solitude des camps d’hiver prend fin dans la rassemblement du printemps. Après le débâcle, ou le peuple peut prendre la « route qui se meuve ». c’est le festin. Jusqu’à 400 femmes de la tribu chantaient ensemble au tir d’érable. Un chant spécial aux syllabes liquides. Si les rivières sont le sang de notre Mère, la terre son corps, la sève est son lait. Et le sucre d’érable son eucharistie, don particulier du Créateur à échanger aux grands rendezvous qui furent Tadoussac, Trois Rivières, et Hochelaga.

Nicole est adjointe à la direction et responsable du dossier des relations autochtones inter-réserve et internationales, du biosphère du Lac-Saint-Pierre. Sa photo-exploration en kayak, Alsiganteku.

Abenaki Nation and legends, Travel guide to the Lac St Pierre biosphere, E-bird maps and barcharts; date the American Robin is first heard singing.