Wildlife Refuge

There are nearly six hundred National Wildlife Refuges in the United States.

Let’s face it, neither of us is going to write a poem today that will rival this… I’d bet money on it.

The words aren’t coming.

They will. They always do, eventually. But not yesterday. And not today, either, ...apparently. Too much swirl. Too much… hmmmmmm, reluctance? Self recrimination? Reticence to get swept into something that isn’t me, or what I really want? Doesn’t really matter.

Most days I’d rather do the work than talk about the work. Rather create than talk about creativity. Too much like having a meeting about meetings.

Some days the best thing I know to do is go walkabout. Take all that fidgety energy, my endless list of complaints and most bragworthy accomplishments to the birds and the dragonflies. See if they’re impressed. Or if, you know, maybe they’ll take a few minutes to listen to my complaints, tell me how unfairly I’ve been treated, what a misunderstood genius I really am. Yeah… almost certainly, that’s how it’ll go this time.

It’s never gone that way yet. Not even once. But, you know, hope springs eternal, eh?

Meantime… Ducks, and dragonflies. And songbirds. And frogs.

A wildlife refuge and miles of wetland trails and smells.

Mrs.Wood Duck and her seven, darling ducklings.

…and an older, juvenile Wood Duckling from another brood.

The eight-spotted skimmer (Libellula forensis), is one of the most strikingly beautiful of the large dragonflies of the North American West, featuring the standard skimmer body form earns its name from the eight black markings on the wings which make it hard to miss in its native environment of marshes, ponds and desert creeks and rivers.

American Bullfrog (Lithobates catesbeianus), an introduced species found in many lakes, ponds and wetlands in Washington State were originally found only to the east of the Rocky Mountains. Their populations are increasing and in many areas efforts are being made to eradicate them.

Common Yellowthroat (Geothlypis trichas). I must have encountered at least a dozen (actually, more), of these little, masked-bandit wonders, yesterday in audible form, but only two actually ever showed themselves. They are masters of concealment. This gorgeous little male was singing and carrying on from less than ten feet away but was nowhere to be seen. Then I weighed in with a response to his 'call,' a squeaky little kissy sound and a chirp. We went back and forth, maybe a dozen times before he popped up out of the heavy, grass below to look me in the eye, to see who, what was playing with him like this. My human stature did not seem to dissuade him from the game, but instead (as is sometimes the case), it seemed to make me ever so slightly more intriguing. We courted and considered one another for a good ten minutes this way and by the end, I was practically laughing with joy.

Cardinal Meadowhawk (Sympetrum illotum)

I read the name of this creature and imagine being given that name, Cardinal Meadowhawk as an American Indian child, a moniker to live up to. Feels so auspicious. So poetic and powerful at the same time. Such big medicine.

Cardinal Meadowhawks are some of the first dragonflies to emerge each year and thrive from southern British Columbia down the west coast of the U.S. all the way to Chile and Argentina in South America.. Their Latin name, Sympetrum, means "with rock" and refers to their habit of basking on rocks to absorb heat early in the day. They hunt from perches on rocks or bare branches and have a characteristic perching posture, allowing their wings to droop below their thorax.

Cardinal Meadowhawk dragonfly

A female and two juvenile Hooded Mergansers (Lophodytes cucullatus), swimming through a Monet painting.

So many Swainson's Thrushes (Catharus ustulatus), hunting in the moist, brushy wetlands and dutifully ferrying food to their nestlings and fledglings. I bet I heard at least two dozen of them and actually watched five or six at work. This one hunted along the creek and then flew back to the nest with a mouthful of insects three or four times while I watched from the shadows…

You have your way of photographing the Milky Way Galaxy and I have mine. Sometimes a pond turtle is exactly the sort of poem your soul needs to hear… even while it makes absolutely no discernible sound.

So, no great feast of wisdom here. No lyrical majesty or million dollar quotes.

Sit with the silent times, when the muse isn’t speaking. Don’t try to hurry past it. Sit with it. Listen. Don’t waste your currency with your readers by resorting to lame juggling acts of words and sarcasm, or ‘look what I can do’ bullshit to fill up the silence. Don’t try to psyche ‘it’ out so that ‘it,’ whatever that is will release you from your temporary, literary paralysis and allow you your next hit of ‘Oh thank god, somebody liked it…’ dopamine.

Great music is as much about the spaces between notes as the notes.

It’s easy to forget that.

But the truth lives there…

in the spaces between.

And we can (I swear it’s true), learn to love them.

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