Thorns and Nails.

What is it that I want to do?

What is it that I want from you?

I’ll do what you want me to -

I’ll bear the thorns and nails.

Chase me down then tear me up.

Drink my tears from a lover’s cup.

Knock me down; I’ll just get up -

I’ll bear the thorns and nails.

Set me loose into the sky.

Watch me fall or watch me fly.

Not up to you but up to I -

I’ll bear the thorns and nails.

Butterfly image taken today at Big River. I'm not normally a pink and purple butterfly kind of person, but what can I say? This image kind of captures the Fragility of Things that I've been noticing a lot lately.

Killed And Eaten.

Dear Blog,

I’m sorry to have neglected you lo this past (almost) year.

To make it up to you, here is a picture of a Great Blue Heron eating a gopher she has hunted down and killed in a cemetery.

I have seen Great Blue Herons hunting in wetlands many times, spearing with their dagger-like beaks unsuspecting fishes or frogs as they swim by. But a heron hunting gophers on dry land in a historic Mendocino cemetery? Well, this was a first for me.

When today started, I had a simple goal. I was going to photograph the first compelling thing I saw on my way to work, and I was going to post it on my blog with a commentary. But my walk this morning was relatively peaceful and uneventful, and as I passed one of the oldest cemeteries in town on the way to my job, I was losing all hope of anything materializing that was noteworthy enough to re-start this whole blogging business.

But then, less than fifty feet from my office, there she was, a creature completely out of her element. A thing unexpected. A thing figuring out how to survive in a strange environment. A thing adapting, learning, growing... A thing killing rodents instead of frogs and fishes - rodents that have sharp teeth. And stabby claws.

She was a thing killing things and eating things in a place filled with killed things who themselves were being eaten by the things being killed and eaten by her.

And so has been my life.

Love,

Jen

Fox News Update.

Shortly after the last time I posted about the vixen and her fox kits living under my porch, the entire family became mobile enough for the vixen to move them. Considering how destructive the five kits had become, I imagine she probably wanted a den better-suited for her family - not to mention less human-y smelling.


Here's a video to refresh your memory:

As you can see from this video, these little kits are quite invested in chewing on anything they are curious about. That means the garden hose, my rosebush, tools, any shoes left outside - the list goes on and on. Clearly they had been getting too rambunctious and accustomed to the world of humans, and the vixen made the wise choice to move the family further away from the cabin.

(The fact that I like to listen to a lot of Cream might also have contributed to the move. Foxes don't seem to share my love of Clapton.)

The last time I spotted the family of foxes, it was in the distance, and the mother was leading away four of her kits. Only four. I have no idea what happened to the fifth one, but not seeing it take off with its family made me fear the worst.

I was also sad because I thought the family had gone for good. Days went by after that last sighting, and I didn’t see or hear any sign of the foxes.

Then last Saturday, I spotted this little one lounging on the deck in the sun, as if he or she had never left.

This kit hung around all weekend - but no sign of its mother or siblings.

And now I haven't seen this one, either, for a week.

I don’t want to believe the worst. Instead, I tell myself that it’s possible that this single fox is the fifth kit. The runt of the litter who wasn’t strong enough to range away from under the deck along with its mother and four siblings, and who has been sustained all of this time by the vixen. I picture her returning quietly, night after night, with a mouse or a mole for this little straggler. I’ve even managed to convince myself that, after dark, I can hear critters on the porch making a fox-like rumpus.

But while I don’t want to believe the worst, I fear it. Is the simpler, more horrible explanation the likelier truth? Top predators are my neighbors (not to mention large, unfriendly dogs), and a little fox kit is a trifle for any one of them. So I must face the likelier possibility that this fox the only one in the litter to survive. If it has survived at all.


And having to face that fact is pretty damn awful.

But owls, hawks, bobcats and cougars have to eat, too.


Besides, I've said it once, and I'll say it again: Nature isn't cruel; just indifferent.

POST SCRIPT:

Look who just showed up outside of my window as I was preparing to post this missive to my blog...

This little one just popped out from under the deck for a drink of water from a bowl I had left out and kept full - even as my hopes had dimmed that any of the fox kits still survived.


The moral of this story? Well, there are a few...

1. The world of foxes is a mysterious one.

2. When you have no way of knowing what is going on, assuming the worst rather than the best is a bad strategy. After all, if you have no way of knowing the answer, then assuming the best is just as valid as assuming the worst. So, if both assumptions are equally-valid, then why not smile over thoughts of a positive outcome - rather than obsess over an outcome that makes you anxious and sad?

3. Embrace with gratitude moments of real happiness. My heart sang when this little one reappeared.




I want to live in this moment forever.

Fireworks.

The warming Golden State

Is not at Liberty

To celebrate Independence

With sulfur.

The eternally blazing sun

Independent by Nature

Celebrates nothing

By setting.

Happy Independence Day.

Foxes For Bloomsday.

From James Joyce's Ulysses

"Nestor" 

The cock crew

The sky was blue:

The bells in heaven

Were striking eleven.

Tis time for this poor soul

To go to heaven.

-- What is that?

-- What, sir?

-- Again, sir. We didn't hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said:

-- What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

--- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

One Bloomsday, roses bloomed on a bush in my yard that hadn't had flowers for many years. Another Bloomsday, it was a mountain flower riot of rhododendrons. 

This year, it’s a skulk of foxes.

Not under a hollybush - under my front porch, right next to my door.

YES.