December Creek

(from Open House for Butterflies, by Ruth Krauss and Maurice Sendak)

In Robert Burns' Scots way of speaking, a "brae" is a hillside or slope, and the "braes" would refer to an upland area.

                        Afton Water

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,

Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;

There daily I wander as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;

There oft, as mild Ev'ning sweeps over the lea,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

 --Robert Burns,  and written in 1786

Here's the lovely (no, goddamned amazing) Nickel Creek performing maybe the best version ever sung to the lyrics of this poem:

(And for what it's worth, Sweet Afton was also an Irish brand of short, unfiltered cigarettes made with Virginia tobacco.)

Creekside switchgrass at season's end

Coffee break

95% off the property:
baked sweet potato, steamed mustard/chard, and fried deer.
Getting there.

And this is the view yesterday morning driving down from the top of the property to The Creek, with its own bit of cloud.

June and July 2014

Morning of June 10, not long after a rood rise on the Creek,
as evidenced by the fine drift-log on the boulder.

Damsel.

Incomplete clutch of turkey eggs found between gate
and house. Three days later, they were gone.

Juvenile red-shoulder hawk at the edge of its nest (June 10). 

  A couple days later on June 12 a nice storm tore of the tops of many cedar elm trees, but not this one. The hawks never returned, though.

  Beneath the nest, I found these items:

Red-shouldered hawk kitchen midden.

Toppled over in the July 12 storm

Dogs' graves beneath the fallen elm.

June 13 after a fair rain and wind.

Field leading up to our place. Most beautiful field in the world.

Turkey chick ("Tennessee") among chicken chicks.

First week of June harvest from the greenhouse

Heirloom. June 6.

Fresh from the terraced pesto garden against the hill.

Dead. Desiccated. And still beautiful.

  Now for a short button-bush series: