What is a branch without a leaf, a lovely, lush, living gem of green? Where does the vine first connect beneath the dark, deep, dim earth? When does the branch give birth to tender bud, to juicy fruit, to life? Why does the branch bare badly; it has dried and is no longer rooted.
Without sturdy roots, a branch becomes just tinder; embers in the fire.
P. Wolf; poet & author
“I am the vine, you are the branches; the one who remains in Me, and I in him bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing.” John 15:5
I’m proud to announce my new children’s chapter book for ages 6-9. It was released today on Amazon. The first book in this adventure series focuses on children’s dramatic play and the character of Paul from the book of Acts. Your kids will enjoy sailing the high seas was Alexis and her younger brother, Ollie!
Months have passed like dawn and dusk, the year the world was unable to join to celebrate an event which changed history; not just history but one’s eternity.
As morning sun rises in warm eastern sky, bird songs echo in the budding woodland, the air is vibrant with life as if a new born has been birthed; but it’s not this moment
to wonder of. What about one’s eternity? There was a year the world did not celebrate Christ’s coming forth from the tomb; as isolation locked loved ones from us.
I can’t help but wonder of being isolated from our Redeemer; what a cruel eternity to enter into when so much more is available to those who are willing to accept Christ as Savior!
“I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death.”
Still there’s a slice of ice encasing the marsh as glass; stiff, sharp becomes a screen protecting you from prey. Visions of rich, dense duck weed and brown, earthy tuffs of marsh grass huddle waiting for cloudless sky. But morning chill tells another story of early spring.
Buried deep you rest. With scent of spring playing games of hide and seek; you find no aroma of wild rose only unscented seeds from brown, barefaced bundled of reeds and cat-tails spinning, dancing atop silvery layer of ice; your roof-top sky light. Your throaty call echoes beneath; stiff in the icy entrapment.
Yet, this is your woodland nest here life and death linger in stiff pools of decaying waters rich with microscopic bacteria; so minuscule even your bulgy protruding eyes unable to find them. Your passion overriding all, your mission drives you forward as your need to seek a mate becomes all; this is why you were created and it consumes your very existence.
A warning, when the ice melts cranes and geese are waiting to have you as a tasty meal. Sing quickly, call out rhythmic chips, chatter and chants; for somewhere she waits past all still danger to dance awhile as it has been written in the book of “Spring Peepers Logs of Love”; for now the image in ice is only you!
“These all wait for You, That You may give them their food in due season. What You give them they gather in; You open Your hand, they are filled with good. You hide Your face, they are troubled; You take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. You send forth Your Spirit, they are created; And You renew the face of the earth.”
Psalm 104: 27-30
Photo credit to images online
northern cricket frog is a species of small hylid frog native to the United States and northeastern Mexico. Despite being members of the tree frog family, they are not arboreal. It has two recognized subspecies.
Wikipedia
Northern cricket frogs sometimes occur in cattail ( Typha sp.) thickets as well as in other terrestrial and/or aquatic shoreline vegetational assemblages .
Other treefrogs in the northern cricket frog’s range are the spring peeper, the western chorus frog and the gray treefrog. The spring peeper has a dark X-shaped blotch on the back. The western chorus frog has three dark continuous or broken lines down the back. The gray treefrog has a light spot with a dark border under each eye and bright orange or yellow inner thighs. The cricket frog appears to have “warts” like a toad but lacks the large parotoid glands that toads have behind each eye. The clicking call of the northern cricket frog may be difficult to distinguish from that of some marsh birds.
For decades I’ve looked forward to late March and spring again here in Wisconsin. First, the red winged black birds arrive with cranes and geese. Then the air is filled with a chorus of spring peepers. Their voice is a melody of a thousand vocal musicians filling the halls of my woodland. Come late April there is no pond side sitting. Their song so intense, one needs to close all windows. Yet, those early sounds bring joy to my heart. P. Wolf; poet & author
One hundred stood shading; tall, trusting, thriving trees till the heavens opened their mouth like a multitude of mottled black humpback whales;
spouting, raging upon earth. Pounding, pounding, pounding huge, hungry, hurtful torrents of rain racing and running past and though my hundred; blood
flowing in the earth rooted vain landscapes now lapping at once study, towering trunks with bark oozing crying like a child in need of comfort. But there was no one
who could aid in their clamity for disaster had done its deed. Thick husky trunks wore water boots which would be their last apparel, as dragon flies frolicked
upon the surface of a newly birthed pond where once seedling grew and thrived in rich woodland that canopied my sunny back yard. Water still flows… now from my eyes.
“God is our refuge and strength, a very ready help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth shakes and the mountains slip into the heart of the sea; Though its waters roar and foam, Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.”
Psalm 46:1-3
It’s been over a decade since the flood affected more than one hundred trees. Water was almost knee high in a place where garden, fruit trees and play structure had occupied. Our woodland surrounded the acre of land. Within a few years tree after tree began to wither and die. Some still stand today rotting upright waited to tumble to the earth and become rich soil. Not only does man clear the earth, but nature itself seems to be in conflict.
Elegant, lengthy, lovely legs trailing in March breeze; outstretched Victorian neck curved, crooked cleverly striving for morning sun. Warbling, warbling melody etching news in cluttered sky, “Sandhills Cranes with scarlet mascara have finally arrived!” If only they would return my gaze when summer swelters in.
Whether stepping singly across a wet meadow or filling the sky by the hundreds and thousands, Sandhill Cranes have an elegance that draws attention. These tall, gray-bodied, crimson-capped birds breed in open wetlands, fields, and prairies across North America
allaboutbirds.org
At night, both species of cranes prefer to roost in shallow wetlands or rivers. … In wetlands, sandhill and whooping cranes eat a variety of animals, including birds (mostly nestlings and eggs), rodents, snakes, frogs (adults and tadpoles), insects, fish, snails, mussels, crayfish, and turtles.
Sandhill Cranes are known for their dancing skills. Courting cranes stretch their wings, pump their heads, bow, and leap into the air in a graceful and energetic dance.
allaboutbirds.org
P.Wolf, poet & author… I actually saw this tender dance one summer afternoon as I sat on my back porch staring out on our marsh. It was stunning as is the Sandhill’s Creator who waits for all people to follow Him.
“Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the LORD.”
Turtle creek flows under a weathered bridge where an old country road meanders. In spring crowds of geese gather noisily; tucked atop brittle corn stubble field sunning eastwardly on many mornings.
The Red-wings are causing a rumpus atop pompous grasses swaying in wind; perched too on worn fence posts aligned like stretched dominos, as kill-dear chatter along road trusting their nests are hidden.
Then whooping cranes soar overhead, their methodical sounds still the other birds, as attention is now drawn above; to sounds once endangered yet dozens travel Wisconsin air roads in open skies.
Turtle Creek meanders past many mellow meadows and moraines where spring has gathered its skirts once again- attached on her frilly Easter bonnet bountiful with feathers ready to nest.
The Whooping Crane is the tallest bird in North America and one of the most awe-inspiring, with its snowy white plumage, crimson cap, bugling call, and graceful courtship dance. It’s also among our rarest birds and a testament to the tenacity and creativity of conservation biologists. The species declined to around 20 birds in the 1940s but, through captive breeding, wetland management, and an innovative program that teaches young cranes how to migrate, numbers have risen to about 600 today.
allaboutbirds.org
However, with the recent Whooping Crane Eastern Partnership Reintroduction Project, whooping cranes nest naturally for the first time in 100 years in the Necedah National Wildlife Refuge in central Wisconsin, United States. They nest on the ground, usually on a raised area in a marsh.
Wikipedia.org
Moraines are accumulations of dirt and rocks that have fallen onto glacier surface or have been pushed along by the glacier as it moves. The dirt and rocks composing moraines can range in size from powdery silt to large rocks and boulders. A receding glacier can leave behind moraines that are visible long after the glacier retreats.
Woodpecker beating, beating on ragged bark; endlessly tapping, tormenting residents housed within. Awaking tiny pests, rousing insect ruffians, courier warning of their demise.
Woodpecker beating, beating his own drum; forever drilling, darting his beak in then out. Arising strength within, forging ahead with lust, finding one’s inner vigor.
“My flesh and my heart fail; But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
Red breasted robin returned today; followed by a rattling, rambunctious red-winged black bird babbling in tall rushes, tails puffed to seed.
Skies a sapphire shade speak of spring; while tree buds are tucked tightly away holding their breath, waiting to reveal their packages of cashmere blooms.
Well known is early arrival can crush and destroy a flourishing crop of fruits; so are a poet’s words scattered across an empty page waiting, waiting, waiting.
Words gathered in a nest after long, chilled winter; thoughts, inspirations and musings ready to sprout forth blooming songs from the poet’s heart.
