The truth lies in a state of darkness and shadow, where existence is without form.”
Jun’ichiro Tanizaki, “In Praise of Shadows”
“Autumn Leaves” (11/16/24)
One of the lingering memories of my childhood was Nat King Cole singing Johnny Mercer’s nostalgic hit, “Autumn Leaves.” Towards the end of October my mother would put it on their old turntable while she cooked dinner. After Thanksgiving she would switch it out to his Christmas album. Curious how evocative certain tunes and smells can be decades later.
This scene below, a favorite sweep of the Chagrin River, also reminds me of the changing seasons, drawing me to it each fall to capture the color of the landscape and listen to the flow of the river. Many will recognize the area lying just north of Fairmount on Chagrin River Road.
Normally I visit the scene mid to late October but a hip replacement altered my timing. At any rate I hobbled out today and was surprised to find some colorful maples and splashes of green here and there. The east bank of the river north to Gates Mills is home to one of the most diverse deciduous forests in NE Ohio. A variety of maples, American sycamore, beech, oaks, American black cherry, poplar and ash grow among one another. What surprised me today was the end of season yellow maples, still deeply hued and marcescent. Perhaps a sign of climate change or an act of solidarity with the beech that hold their leaves through winter.
“Fields of Gold, Squire Valleevue Farm” (10/27/18)
A perennial frame of reference for the appearance/disappearance of late season meadow flowers (e.g. Ironweed, asters, etc.), this year’s goldenrod lasted less than two weeks, a blooming cycle that often remained active for as long as a month in year’s past.
The work Ana Locci and her staff at Squire Valleevue have accomplished in recent years has been transformative. The changes to the landscape, while subtle, belie the many extraordinary conservation and organic food programs and initiatives in progress. What a great treasure for the CWRU students who are fulfilling Andrew Squire’s vision of a working farm at the same time they are having “grounded” new learning experiences.
The photo was taken early one morning several weeks ago as I had the great fortune and great eye of Kim Bissett to accompany me.
“Red Tail Sits on an Old Gum Tree” (9/02/24)
Early Thursday afternoon this red tailed hawk, clearly injured, found a perch atop a long deceased sugar gum along the south western ridge of Squire Valleevue farm.
I first encountered him in late August, 2006, shortly after he had fledged and was learning to hunt. Six years later, on a calm July morning, I observed him in a brief aerial battle with a bald eagle. The eagle, appearing as a speck on the northwest horizon, made a slow, protracted descent, gliding silently into the farm’s 400 acres of airspace. The red tail lifted without a sound from the top of a towering honey locust on the perimeter of the east meadow, quickly gaining altitude before dropping abruptly to engage the larger bird. The eagle, rolling from impact, plummeted a few feet before continuing on beyond the farm towards the eastern ridge of the Chagrin valley. The hawk declared sovereignty through its distinctive KEE-AAH, KEE-AAH scream, a piercing first shriek descending only slightly into a savage, unholy note of domination.
Several years passed before two of the farm’s staff and I witnessed a more protracted battle moments after sunrise. A few rolls and pitches and much sound and fury evidenced the only drama as neither bird appeared injured, the eagle continuing on rapidly past the farm’s boundaries.
Spotting this familiar red tail last Thursday was particularly heartening in light of our undeclared relationship over the years. What was concerning, however, was the evidence of a fight, primary feathers on his left wing broken and tail feathers torn, he may have encountered a determined eagle or perhaps an owl.
If animals could write or choose lyrics, I suspect this red tail hawk would identify with Paul Simon’s “The Boxer.”. But few boxing fans have absorbed a nose or rib crushing blow or felt the searing pain of sutured eyelids, or the savage separation of wing and tail feathers.
“In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down.”
“End of Summer” (8/15/24)
Every August, in my memory at least, a weather front blows through and with it a short respite from northeast Ohio’s oppressive heat and humidity – little more than a tease of autumn. It always seems to coincide with the time of year I notice some plants going to seed, perhaps because these clement days lure me into the fields and meadows where I find myself among them. At any rate, about five years ago I stumbled upon garlic scapes growing randomly in our front garden. And as beautiful as these allium are in bloom, it’s the period in early-mid August when they dry that fascinates me so. The photograph below was one I took yesterday that seemed worthy of a brief description.
Suspended in first light and a gentle August morning breeze, a desiccated stalk and umbel of a garlic scape sways in a short arc, before returning to plumb. Bulbils, the individual lobes clustered here, unite in high relief against an abstract background of blurred green foliage and a distant pink cone flower. To me it appears to bow its head, not in resignation so much as reverence and possibility; reverence for its own regeneration and potential for rebirth. The notion of perpetual life notwithstanding, there is an elegiac beauty to its temporal existence.
“In Praise of a Rising Sun” May 27, 200
“In Praise of a Rising Sun”
Shortly after 4:30 a.m., 15 years ago tomorrow morning, I arrived at Schweitzer marsh to “bear witness” to another sunrise. At the time I calculated I’d seen 200 or more sunrises and perhaps only a score of sunsets over the 60 years that I’d visited the marsh. Each was remarkable for its singular beauty and each has added immeasurably to my reverence for existence.
For all its dramatic color at the end of day the setting sun, our animating star, goes mostly unnoticed as it transits the sky; a quotidian fixture languishing above until its abrupt conclusion, sliding silently away, fire and birdsong disappearing with it into night. For me, the setting sun tinges of resignation, even the mystery of death, an epilogue to the long day … to life – possessing a secular sameness, almost an afterthought in contrast to the numinosity of the rising sun.
Looking east across the marsh, this indelible morning began in the dark of night as I picked my way along the west bank through buttonbush, rush and reed to its northern corner. The path, if not particularly worn, was well known to me as I’ve travelled it frequently, often in a soporific state I confess. The water’s surface, mere feet beyond the bank, spread imperceptibly east, not yet visible. Shortly after 5:00 a.m. its surface or possibly its illusion appeared though it was not until hearing the “check, check” call of a red winged blackbird that I knew with certainty twilight had begun – the true magic when trees and brush and wildlife slowly take form. After another 30 minutes the Canada geese joined the red winged blackbirds and spring peepers as the marsh came to life beneath the colorless, opaque sky.
Beyond and above daybreak’s dissonant shrill, as the sun pierced the horizon, came the sublime, terrifying croak of a Great Blue Heron proclaiming itself in the new day. In that moment, the morning fire, an effulgent blaze of red and orange, terror and wonder, swept the landscape. Who has witnessed such moments and emerged unchanged?
So I leave you with one of my favorite images. After the sun rose that morning and the chorus of birds and peepers fell silent, a lone redwing blackbird perched atop a long dead pin oak, announced his existence and joy for the new day.
In many ways this is my elegy to Schweitzer Marsh, especially for those of you who have followed and assisted in preserving this small, remote wilderness. The Wheeling & Lake Erie railroad effectively drained the wetland over a year ago and can not be persuaded by law or through conservation to reverse their actions.
Autumn and spring migrations have ceased, the red winged blackbirds have moved on and only a small rivulet runs tortuously over fields of dead sedge. As John Keats lamented in his famous ballad, “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” just over 200 years ago, “The sedge has withered … and no birds sing.”
