Adaptation
Some days I hardly remember
What it is to fly
What loss is
When morning feels like betrayal
And shoulders ache
With sudden gravity
Pressed into cruel bone design
Too human for wings
As if I never once awoke
Hair smelling of cloud
Wound in wild knots
And damp with tears
Or slept
Curled into a crevice of wind
Other days I recall myself
Grace confined to memory
In which I have never flown
And it was only ever a dream
Of falling
With all the other angels
I’m happy to report that speedwell is blooming in my yard.
Perhaps it’s a failing on my part, but I don’t aspire to keep a tame yard. I can’t understand the lawn-care tradition that reviles henbit and purple dead-nettle, dandelions and wood sorrel. From my perspective, these hardy survivors spread welcome blankets of green over otherwise brown winter yards, then they bloom during the bleakest days. Their flowers brighten those February and March weeks when my spirit is at its weakest, when I begin to despair that spring might actually skip a year. So I welcome this speedwell, this miniature blue perfection, reflecting a clear blue sky.
The woods of my youth grew complete with creek and wildlife. I knew every nest, den, and footprint. In summer briars, snakes, and mosquitoes swarmed into the woods. In winter they retreated, surrendering a fey, brittle place where I got lost for hours without ever getting lost. Escorted by a pack of dogs, sometimes by the bravest of our cats, I chased over and around and through the creek, straggling home at dusk muddy and matted with burrs.
In early spring lamprey came to spawn. I gloated over the lamprey, certain they lived nowhere else of consequence. Each March I knelt for hours beside the shallows where they dug their nests. I counted them and marveled at their spots and stripes. I cupped my hands under them and watched them wiggle free over my fingers.
I’m sure I did other things, had other habits and hobbies. But my memory is overgrown, buried in underbrush and fallen leaves, forever snarled in the woods. Should I return now, I don’t believe I’d find my woods. Only a few acres of trees and a little stream.
So where does my nostalgia lead? Not back into the woods. But spending time with these pictures feels like an invaluable luxury in my busy world of adult anxieties.
I wrote this piece a few years ago. I’m reposting it now because these pictures have been calling to me. They are more than shadow and light, more than pixels. They rustle like leaves and smell like wet, happy dogs. (All four dogs are long passed and well grieved.) I can almost taste the crisp air from that misty day in 1992, a rare elixir of youth and solitude and happiness. Perhaps, despite my earlier claim, this nostalgia DOES lead back into the woods.
My obsession with dragonflies flared during a particularly perfect summer, when hordes of them settled in the back yard. They fairly swarmed that year, gold and green and blue jewels glittering in the heat. In the seasons since, I’ve learned to call a few by name, though I am hardly a dragonfly expert. A field guide is on my wish list, but until then I’ll do the best I can with my camera and the internet.
Eastern Pondhawk
Halloween Pennant
Eastern Amberwing
Blue Dasher
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Once I started noticing them, I found them everywhere. While the above pictures were all taken in my own back yard, the photos below were taken at Norfolk Botanical Garden (top), at First Landing State Park (middle), and near the beach at Sandbridge (bottom).
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Eastern Pondhawk
By this time last year, the mid-Atlantic coast had seen several snows, with more to come. This was my back yard in early February:
By April, spring gripped the area. Snow melted into memory, but the cardinals stayed. I found this lovely fellow on one of my walks at First Landing State Park:
This year, I haven’t seen any snow. I also haven’t seen any cardinals. Perhaps both will make an appearance before spring.
(Ever wonder where Northern Cardinals get their brilliant hues? Check out this article.)
Rae Spencer 