Field Notes: Spring 2025
A gathering of shiny acorns
Too small for their hard shells,
Swollen kernels crack constraints
To welcome rain and sunlight and soil.
Acts of faith and hope.
Acorns being acorns.
Prescription
I knew my coughing, runny-nose body needed rest, but it was finally sunny and warm, so off Asha and I went
& when we rounded a bend, the Blunt-lobed-Hepatica-covered slope took my breath away
& an orange butterfly fluttered by
& I heard and saw Ruby-crowned Kinglet high in the tree branches
& I almost stepped on Bloodroot en route to admire Hobblebush, whose uncurling leaves reminded me of bowls
& I spotted a Scarlet Cup among the fallen leaves
& a patch of Trailing Arbutus was deliciously fragrant
& tadpoles had yet to emerge from the glorious mass of amphibian eggs
& Asha splashed in the brook, retrieving sticks
& a Wild Turkey ran along the trail, unbeknownst to Asha, who might have been sniffing the turkey’s tracks
& I came upon a new-to-me cluster of Beaked Hazelnuts
& our walk was longer than usual because Asha took us on a detour and then I insisted we detour off the detour so I could look more closely at Eastern Cottonwood twigs
& the walk was medicine.
Why I was late
Wild Columbine beckoned with red and yellow petals; Fringed Polygala, with purple-pink buds.
Bigtooth Aspen saplings invited me to touch their soft young leaves.
Winter Wren, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Ovenbird, Red-eyed Vireo, Common Yellowthroat and Gray Catbird called to me, asking me to stop and listen to their songs.
Wild and Woodland Strawberry flowers whispered.
The brook, wide and full, roared.
My heart spoke to me: My human friends will understand why I’m late.
Once open, there’s no going back
Rounding the bend Asha and I are greeted by seeds attached to cottony fluff floating lazily on a breeze. Rising, falling. Drifting with the direction of the wind on their unhurried journey.
Farther along the trail I find a source: catkins of olive-green capsules, small and open, with an astonishing amount of downy seeds spilling out.
How can so much fit into such a tiny space? I marvel.
As I experiment with tucking the seeded tufts back inside the capsules, I feel like I’m meddling. So much would be lost if I forced them in.
I return the catkin to the trail and whisper, “Be free. Fly. Flourish.”
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Winter 2024/2025 – The taste of snow; The luminous middle; Old question, new answer; Breadcrumbs; Ice-crusted snow; Untitled (after reading Atticus)
Fall 2024 – No clues required; Every time the wind picks up; Postcards to the Woods #4: Moonrise at sunset; Texts and birds
Summer 2024 – Seen but not seen; Signs along the trail; With these quiet noticings
Spring 2024 – Small noticing, big impact; Scene: Woods in the Northeast; Momentum; Postcard to the Woods #3; The week of smittenness; Befitting of an adult?
