#Yellow eye junco

[sebring5]

9-1 by Henry Via Flickr: Anna’s hummingbird

[skyward-floored]

IAU prompt- Sky and Aryll (and Sun, if you like) need some fluff I think 🥺

They do indeed, I agree. I’ll admit it actually took me a bit to think of some fluff for them— I’m too used to angst for Sky lol. But I think I managed some fluff, I hope you enjoy!

Requests are closed right now, I’m just finishing up old ones!

————————————————————

Sky adjusted his daughter on his lap, her hands grabbing excitedly at the pages of the book he was trying to read to her. Aryll wasn’t sitting still long enough for him to get any of the story out though, so he was just looking at the pictures with her in their backyard, enjoying the warm afternoon.

“Okay, and what’s this one, Aryll?” Sky asked, and Aryll pointed excitedly at the page of the book.

“Bir! Bir!”

“That’s right, it’s a bird! This one is a chickadee,” Sky said, pointing at the picture. “They make sounds kind of like their name. Chick a dee dee dee.”

“Dee!”

“Exactly,” Sky chuckled, and Aryll tugged at the page, wanting to go on to the next one. Sky flipped it for her, and Aryll pointed at the next bird.

“E-ull!”

“Yep, that’s a seagull,” Sky said, and Aryll placed her hand on the picture of the bird’s outstretched wing.

She admired it for a minute, then tugged on the page, wanting her father to turn it. He did, and Aryll squealed at the sight of the red bird on the page.

“Papa!”

Sky laughed and shook his head, kissing Aryll’s head. “No pumpkin, that’s a cardinal. Our feathers are mostly the same color, but they don’t have any white or other colors on their wings, see? Just red.”

Aryll giggled, not really understanding the explanation, but that was okay. She looked at the picture for a minute, then up at Sky, a hopeful look on her face.

“Wi?”

“You want to see my wings?” Sky asked.

Aryll bounced in his lap. “Wi! Wi wi wi wi!”

Sky laughed. “Okay, okay! Here—”

Sky gave a cautious glance around the yard— the area was blocked fairly well with trees and bushes, but he still wasn’t going to just pop his wings out without making sure no one was around first. Nobody seemed to be out though, and satisfied they were alone, Sky pulled the back of his shirt up, since it wasn’t one of the ones he owned that had slits cut in the back.

He extended his wings out for Aryll, and she squealed, standing up on his lap and looking over his shoulder at his feathers. Her fingers ran along the edges, ruffling a few feathers, but Sky would fix them later.

“Pre-ey wi,” Aryll said more softly, and Sky smiled at the compliment.

“I can make them look more pretty too, look;” he said, and stretched a wing up, angling it so the tips would catch the light. The white and yellow and purple shimmered as the sunlight landed on them, brightening the colors and warming Sky’s feathers.

Aryll about had stars in her eyes, and Sky flapped a small gust of air at her, making her giggle.

“Pre! Pre!”

“Yeah, they’re something, aren’t they?” Sky said with a smile. Aryll admired them for a minute longer, then twisted her head around to look at her own back, a frown on her face.

“No wi?”

“No pumpkin, I’m sorry, you don’t have wings,” Sky said gently, but before Aryll could get too upset, Sky booped her nose. “But you have something just as cool. You can talk to birds all you want, which is pretty amazing.”

Aryll cocked her head to the side, not quite understanding what he was saying, and Sky whistled a birdsong he knew she especially liked, though he was pretty sure he was doing it wrong. Aryll’s eyes widened, and then she laughed at him.

“Papa a bir!”

Sky laughed in return as Aryll giggled, and then she let out a chirping sound, a whistle mixed with a few cheeps.

Sky blinked at the clear sound, and suddenly there was a chickadee sitting on her knee, joined shortly by a sparrow. Aryll chirped again, and three more birds came and sat with her, a swallow, a junco, and a goldfinch, fluffing their feathers and looking quite happy to be there.

“Aryll, what are you—”

Aryll let out a loud hoot, and suddenly a huge owl swept in, landing beside her and tilting its head curiously. Sky watched it in surprise, and Aryll let out a series of caws, several crows landing along the fence.

She kept up the noises, varying chirps and caws, and in no time at all their backyard was bustling with every kind of feathered friend that there was in the area, common birds, rare birds, birds Sky didn’t even recognize. There were even some seagulls by Sky’s knee, watching Aryll in rapt attention.

She was babbling nonsense mixed with an occasional chirp and whistle, and all the birds were listening, looking fascinated by whatever it was they were hearing. They were completely captivated, and though Sky was slightly bewildered, he had to admit that it was an amazing sight.

Aryll’s powers sure were something else.

Aryll eventually finished her speech with a soft coo, and a large portion of the birds took off, some giving her approving chirps before departing, others nuzzling at her cheek as they left. Soon enough the only birds left were the chickadee she’d originally called, a bluejay, and one of the seagulls.

Aryll chirped at the three of them, and they responded enthusiastically, the chickadee hopping up to sit on her finger while the other two moved to her shoulders. She beamed, and looked over at Sky, a bright smile on her face.

“Birs!”

Sky laughed. “No kidding. What did I tell you? Your powers are amazing, Aryll.”

“Birs a wi,” she said decisively, and leaned back against Sky, snuggling up to his chest. “Wi an bir a dee.”

Sky smiled, only having the vaguest idea of what she was saying, and leaned forward and kissed her head. “Absolutely, sweetie.”

[covecreekphotography]

Hello, White-Throated Sparrows!

The hummingbirds have migrated south, ducks are flying overhead, and dark-eyed juncos (Junco hyemalis) began arriving a week ago.  Today I spotted a couple of white-throated sparrows.  All of this signals that winter is knocking at our door.

Sparrow identification can be tough.  Many of our native sparrows look very similar, and often there is no glaring difference in behaviors.  However, the white-throated sparrow (Zonotrichia albicollis) may be considered an exception to this identification dilemma.

The time of year is a good clue.  White-throated sparrows are migratory, and spend the non-breeding season (late fall and winter) in Arkansas, as well as the rest of the eastern and south-central United States.  Their pattern of arrival tends to be what I have observed over the course of the last week.  White-throated sparrows start filtering in not long after the arrival of dark-eyed juncos.

Feather color and pattern also aid in identification.  A white throat patch (hence the name, white-throated sparrow) between the bill and the gray breast is very apparent.  In the "white-striped" form of this species, a white patch on the side of the head highlights a bright yellow spot located between the base of the gray bill and the eye.  On the other hand, there is a "tan-striped" form of white-throated sparrow, and the yellow spot is less noticeable and difficult to see because the white patch near the eye is absent.  Additionally, a white and black striped crown will be observed in the "white-striped" form, and a brown and black striped crown is present in the "tan-striped" form.  I have observed and recorded both forms in Arkansas, in the field and at home.  Anecdotally, the "white-striped" form is more prevalent every year.

The call of the white-throated sparrow is described as a song sing a that sounds like "Oh-sweet-canada-canada" or "Old-Sam-Peabody-Peabody". One thing is certain.  If you hear its beautiful and distinct call, you'll know white-throated sparrows are around without ever seeing them!

[dk-thrive]

We cannot stop all the destruction, but we can light candles for one another.

The mornings are dark, the late afternoons are dusky, and before we finish making dinner, the daylight is gone. As we approach the darkest days of the year, we’re confronted with the darkness of wars, a dysfunctional government, fentanyl deaths, mass shootings and reports of refugees crawling through the Darién Gap or floundering in small boats in the Mediterranean. And we cannot avoid the tragedy of climate change with its droughts, floods, fires and hurricanes. Indeed, the world is pummeled with misfortune.

We can count ourselves lucky if we do not live in a war zone or a place without food or drinking water, but we read the news. We see the disasters on our screens. Ukraine, Israel and Gaza are all inside us. If we are empathic and awake, we share the pain of all the world’s tragedies in our bodies and in our souls. We cannot and should not try to block out those feelings of pain. When we try, we are kept from feeling much of anything, even love and joy. We cannot deny reality, but we can control how much we take in.

I am in the last decades of life and sometimes I feel that my country and our species are also nearing end times. The despair I feel about the world would ruin me if I did not know how to find light. Whatever is happening in the world, whatever is happening in our personal lives, we can find light.

This time of year, we must look for it. I am up for sunrise and outside for sunset. I watch the moon rise and traverse the sky. I light candles early in the evening and sit by the fire to read. And I walk outside under the blue-silver sky of the Nebraska winter. If there is snow, it sparkles, sometimes like a blanket of diamonds, other times reflecting the orange and lavender glow of a winter sunset.

We can watch the birds. Recently it was the two flickers at my suet feeder with the yellow undersides of their wings flashing, the male so redheaded and protective, the female so hungry. Today it may be the juncos, hopping about our driveway, looking for seeds. The birds are always nearby. Their calls are temple bells reminding me to be grateful.

For other kinds of light, we can turn to our friends and family. Nothing feels more like sunlight than walking into a room full of people who are happy to see me. I think of my son and daughter-in-law on my birthday, Zeke making homemade ravioli and Jamie baking an apple cake, their shining eyes radiating love. Or of my friends, sitting outdoors around a campfire in our coats and hats, reciting poetry and singing songs.

We also have the light of young children. My own grandchildren are far away, but I spend time with 9-year-old Kadija. My husband and I are sponsoring her family; they arrived here from Afghanistan, with only the father speaking English, only a few months ago. Already, she can bring me a picture book and read “whale,” “porpoise” and “squid” in a voice that reminds me of sleigh bells. I know someday she will be a surgeon, or perhaps a poet.

In our darkest moments, art creates a shaft of light. There is light in a poetry book by Joy Harjo, a recording by Yo-Yo Ma and in a collection of Monet’s paintings of snow.

The rituals of spiritual life will also illuminate our days. In my case, it is sun salutations, morning prayers, meditation and readings from Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk and influential Zen master. Also, it’s the saying of grace and the moments when I slow down and am present. Whatever our rituals, they allow us to hold on through the darkness until the light returns.

Finally, we will always have the light of memory. When I recall my grandmother’s face as she read to me from “Black Beauty” or held my hand in church, I can calm down and feel happy. I feel the light on my skin when I remember my mother at the wheel of her Oldsmobile, her black doctor’s bag beside her. Driving home from a house call, she would tell me stories from her life on a ranch in the Great Depression and during the Dust Bowl.

Deep inside us are the memories of all the people we’ve ever loved. A favorite teacher, a first boyfriend, a best friend from high school or a kind aunt or uncle. And when I think of my people, I’m suffused with light that reminds me that I have had such fine people in my life and that they are still with me now and coming back to help me through hard times.

Every day I remind myself that all over the world most people want peace. They want a safe place for their families, and they want to be good and do good. The world is filled with helpers. It is only the great darkness of this moment that can make it hard to see them.

No matter how dark the days, we can find light in our own hearts, and we can be one another’s light. We can beam light out to everyone we meet. We can let others know we are present for them, that we will try to understand. We cannot stop all the destruction, but we can light candles for one another.

— Dr. Mary Pipher, from “Finding Light in Winter” (NY Times, December 11, 2023). Dr. is a clinical psychologist and writer in Lincoln, Neb., and the author, most recently, of “A Life in Light: Meditations on Impermanence.”

[the-world-of-ignavus]

Moggi of the Storm - Diplomat Larkwing

Name: Larkwing

Other Names: Lark (cub, cadet)

Meaning: Brown (Lark-), Protector (-wing)

Age: 4 moonspans & 1 moon | 4 years and 1 month

Identity: Cisgender Tom - He/Him

Orientation:  Homosexual | Hierarchical Polyamorous

Rank: Diplomat

Former Rank(s): Guard Cadet

A long-legged and slender but muscular marble brown tabby tom with yellow eye and a lighter underbelly. Larkwing’s paws are the same paler color as his belly, and he has a dark masking across the upper half of his muzzle. Larkwing was born with an interesting Stormborn condition - his quills are softer than other members of the faction. Between the marble swirls decorating his coat and the softer, barbless quills he was born with, it’s commonly assumed that Larkwing has some Shorerisen heritage. Kindlefoot declined to identify a sire outside of Gentlestep who stepped up, so the matter’s been long-since put to rest, though some still have commentary.

Larkwing and his sister were about the same size when they were born - a healthy pair of twins and a good sign to the faction. He had a fairly normal cubhood all things considered, spending most of his time carefree and happy as a cub should. Though his denmates preferred games involving combat, Lark had always been rather shy and adverse to the idea of rough-housing. He loved learning new things, and the rare pawful of nomads and outsiders that came to the faction were a subject of fascination for him. He would pester them for information on what life beyond the Stormborn was like; returning to the nursery to enthusiastically tell his mother all about it.

To the surprise of no one, Lark only lasted two short moons as a guard cadet before he requested to begin training under Tallwhispers instead. He was relieved when Finchfeathers took no offense, merely chuckling and remarking that he’d known it would happen eventually. It was a bit off-balancing at first to meet with so many non-Stormborn moggi, working his tongue around the languages spoken outside of the empire, but he relished every second of it. Lark thinks he was one of the very few moggi who understood Brastillian Mazzardwhisker’s reasons for leaving and the true weight of what Nightsabre had done long before the trouble started.

Larkwing and Buzzardhide grew rather close to each other not long before their promotions, and began to spend more and more time together in private. Now that was a surprise given Larkwing was all things gentle and kind while Buzzardhide was one word from swearing casually in front of cubs. Larkwing always claims that he loves his grumpy mate and spends most of his time showing him with physical affection that is returned with quiet gestures such as flowers in his nest and his favorite prey being hidden away from him. Their romance is a sweet one, and Larkwing loves his mate deeply.

Receiving Junco was a great honor to him, though he swiftly realized he had a struggle on his paws. His new cadet was so incredibly jumpy and anxious, he immediately understood the weight of the trust His Storm was placing in him. Larkwing vowed to treat the skittish tom like a son and has been making careful progress towards extricating him from his shell. Every day that Junco bounds towards him with his tail in the air and full of pride, Larkwing himself swells with joy.

Drillmaster(s): Finchfeathers (deceased), Tallwhispers (deceased)

Cadet(s): Junco

Parents: Kindlefoot (mother|deceased), Gentlestep (father|deceased)

Sweetparent(s): Cherrysweep (deceased)

Auncle(s): Cherrysweep (aunt|deceased), Rowanstep (uncle|deceased), Bearnose (uncle)

Sibling(s): Walnutleap (sister)

Nephling(s): N/A

Cousin(s): Pollendance

Mate(s): Buzzardhide (primary), Aspenwind (secondary)

Crush(es): N/A

OoC Friends: Grasswhisker, Briarflutter

Cub(s): N/A

Note(s): n/a ( for now)

[venerablemonk27]

I went birding at Aldo Leopold Nature Center in Monona, WI today. One highlight of the hike was all the American Tree Sparrows foraging in the tall grass around the center. This one in particular was checking me out quite a bit from various perches just off the path. (I could tell it was the same one from that little bit of something stuck to their bill.)

[ID: An American Tree Sparrow clings to a small twig. The Sparrow fills the frame, showing the details of the tan and brown streaks in its wings, broken up by two white wing bars. Its head is mostly gray with a brown eyeline cutting across a dark eye and a ruddy brown cap. It has the characteristic two-tone bill, grey above and yellow below, with a small bit of something black stuck to the lower bill. End ID]

I also got to see two distinct Red-tailed Hawks wheeling around overhead, likely looking for prey. The first one is likely immature, judging from the banded tail without much red in it, while the second one is clearly an adult.

[ID: An immature Red-tailed Hawk soars in an overcast sky. The hawk is mostly while, with brown streaks on the head and breast. the wings have flecks of brown, and the light shining through the wings and tail show thin bars. End ID]

[ID: An adult Red-tailed Hawk flies toward the camera at an angle. The hawk is mostly white with a brown head and brown edges on the outstretched wings. Its yellow legs are hanging down, showing an aluminum leg band on the left one. The tail is fanned and tawny brown, indicating that this is a mature adult. End ID]

There were also lots of Dark-eyed Juncos mixed in with the Tree Sparrows. They were generally more skittish, but I did snag this nice photo of a Junco checking the scene from the top of a bare bush.

[ID: A Dark-eyed Junco sits on a bare twig at the top of a bush, looking just to the left of straight at the camera. It is almost entirely grey, with white underparts and a pale pink beak. End ID]

[schizochroal]

In a picture it shows as pink, but to me the sky looks like nothing more than the yellow brown of a blouse stained with dilute blood. As if the sun was a bloody nose wet and dripping with tears now hidden in shame by the inverted horizon. Perhaps it cracked dry with the first taste of fall , or the eclipse left it too brittle to breathe. All it takes is one breath too much and the floodgates breach, with not but the sweetest thought of the moon's last touch to stop the deluge... But. She continues unabated every night, crescent , waning, waxing or full... The world's shadow takes so much from her and yet she remains alight. All the while the sun struggles to even stay above the horizon.

There was a row of hawthorn trees, flush with fruit, pointing down a suburanesque street in the middle of a city, aimed at the empty lot; overtaken by unkempt grass and moss. Where once was a house now lay an empty field with a paved pathway to a doorway that no longer existed, and a patch of gravel in the center fashioned into a makeshift rock garden. Festooned among the ridges were cairns made of discarded concrete and housing materials , carefully positioned according to some laws that seemed beyond my understanding. I sat waiting on the end of that path, letting my skirt take up the motes and remnants of whatever still adorned the pavement from what it once was, and listened to the birds sing on the wires.

Out of sight, but not out of ear; robins, crows, juncos, and the chattering of starlings, survivors and interlopers alike. I don't think they know the difference. There is a bounty in this wasteland, among the doors of this human forest lie those giving seed and succor, if their hunger and guile bests their fear. I don't know if I'm so brave yet. To live in a world made for someone else and sing nonetheless?

One after another , people pass the figure crouched in the field, walking their dogs or their cars or just their legs, they alike stare, if only for a moment. In their eyes I feel a strange key, not minor or major but melodic all the same. And soothing in a way I find yet more strange. I look back, and in their eyes I see an eclipse mirrored back at me. They don't ask of it anything, it is merely there. They aren't annoyed by its failure to cut through the dark nor burdened by its existence in the sky. It exists and that is enough. The weight of their world is hardly a consideration in their understanding of its transit across the sky.

[justsomehibird]

Oh, you're a bird fan? Name every bird.

Babbling starling

Bachman's sparrow

Bachman's warbler

Baer's pochard

Baglafecht weaver

Bagobo babbler

Bahama mockingbird

Bahama oriole

Bahama swallow

Bahama warbler

Bahama woodstar

Bahama yellowthroat

Bahia antwren

Bahia spinetail

Bahia tapaculo

Bahia tyrannulet

Bahian mouse-colored tapaculo

Baikal bush warbler

Baikal teal

Baillon's crake

Baird's flycatcher

Baird's junco

Baird's sandpiper

Baird's sparrow

Baird's trogon

Baja pygmy owl

Bald eagle

Bald parrot

Balearic shearwater

Balearic warbler

Bali myna

Balicassiao

Baliem whistler

Balsas screech owl

Baltimore oriole

Bamboo antshrike

Bamboo foliage-gleaner

Bamboo warbler

Bamboo woodpecker

Bamenda apalis

Bananal antbird

Bananaquit

Banasura laughingthrush

Banda myzomela

Band-backed wren

Band-bellied crake

Band-bellied owl

Banded antbird

Banded barbet

Banded bay cuckoo

Banded broadbill

Banded cotinga

Banded fruit dove

Banded green sunbird

Banded ground cuckoo

Banded honeyeater

Banded kestrel

Banded kingfisher

Banded lapwing

Banded martin

Banded parisoma

Banded prinia

Banded quail

Banded stilt

Banded wattle-eye

Banded whiteface

Banded woodpecker

Banded wren

Banded yellow robin

Band-rumped storm petrel

Band-rumped swift

Band-tailed antbird

Band-tailed antshrike

Band-tailed antwren

Band-tailed barbthroat

Band-tailed earthcreeper

Band-tailed fruiteater

Band-tailed guan

Band-tailed hornero

Band-tailed manakin

Band-tailed nighthawk

Band-tailed oropendola

Band-tailed pigeon

Band-tailed seedeater

Band-tailed sierra finch

Band-winged nightjar

Banggai crow

Banggai fruit dove

Banggai jungle flycatcher

Bangwa forest warbler

Bank cormorant

Bank myna

Bannerman's shearwater

[anonsally]

Today’s neighborhood bird walk

In addition to my usual route, I ventured a few blocks off my beaten path today, and stayed out for nearly 2 hours. I may have seen 22 species, and that’s not counting the unidentified gull or the many birds Merlin identified by sound that I couldn’t locate. 

The most notable was what I think was a savannah sparrow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before, and eBird lists it as infrequent. It was nibbling on a piece of fruit skin (persimmon?) on the ground in someone’s driveway. I don’t think it was a golden-crowned sparrow, as there was no black on the head, and instead of one thick yellow stripe on the crown, there were thin yellow stripes near the eyes. The back was streaky brown and black, and there wasn’t any yellow on the wings. It was definitely sparrow-shaped. @lies, is there anything else it might be? It was fairly close; I should’ve tried to get a photo.

Elsewhere, I also saw a very vocal song sparrow, at least one golden-crowned sparrow, a couple of white-crowned sparrows, a couple California towhees, and a few dark-eyed juncos, so it was kind of a banner day for sparrows and their cousins!

Other sightings included Bewick’s wrens, hermit thrushes (at least 3! I hardly ever see these), cedar waxwings, ruby-crowned kinglets, a black phoebe, an oak titmouse, and at least two northern flickers.

[sebring5]

9.2-1 by Henry Via Flickr: Hummingbird

[mylightsatnight]

And they say Love will come.

And they are right. Love does come. But unexpectedly, un-assuredly, it doesn't rush, doesn't plan. It acts on it's own accord, with it's own priorities, just wanting to bring joy into the lives of these strange humans that have made this place home.

Love will come to her. Maybe her heart got a little dented while studying in Camrose. Her art degree has proved useful in refining her craft. But does she have a dependable job now? Does that matter as little to her as it always did to me? I'm sorry for the way I broke up with you all those years ago. I was young, dumb, and providing excuses won't make the healing any easier. But you learned to pick up the pieces like hair getting swept into the dustpan after your mother cut your hair in the kitchen. The hairdresser was closed that winter break, so she offered to do her best. You said some unkind things because she made your bangs shorter than you wanted them to be, and I should have texted you that night, to see if you were ok. But I didn't, I just asked if you had a haircut when we returned from break, you said yes, in quite a shy way, and then I looked directly into your...beautiful, (but I hate beautiful because it was never specific enough, so I will say more.) I looked into your deep brown eyes, no flecks of hazel, but like a perfectly assimilated cup of hot cocoa, like the warm earth that is one consistent shade around the forest spruce trees, needles all scattered around in cryptic, mythical combinations. Your eyes, which were always one shade, and I never saw any other. But they looked of comfort, of safety, of satisfaction and sunlight, despite their lack of yellow hue. I bet they shone with delight on August lake days, and they warmed the cafe's in the dead of the 40 below winter. Your eyes with no reflection, because you saw the world with a unique advantage. You are brave, strong, independent, and without even a hint of indoctrination of modern trends. You are such a star, happily orbiting your own ellipsis, unaffected by the centre star of your galaxy's pull. I hope Amelia is well, I hope your father didn't hate me too much after all I had done. I hope you know that I drove by your house on occasion, I never leered, never tried to spy through your window or anything. But I just pulled into the loop, and remembered that time we played piano, those times of backyard birthday parties, the bonfires, the harry potter marathon, the jokes, the laughs, and the number of times I couldn't feel my face because I smiled in your happy, happy home. I'm sitting in a cafe, as I always do, at 6pm on a Thursday night, and I saw a picture you posted on Instagram. You don't get nearly the attention you should, and you don't require half the attention that you deserve. You are an unbelievably special person, and it feels like an obese elephant crushing my chest, knowing that you won't read these words, and you might go through life not knowing how many people do have love from you from afar. I hope your horses lived long and healthy lives, despite my personal problems with the creatures. I hope your parents got to keep their house while so many others had to downsize. I hope you had drunken bohemian nights that made your idols of Bowie and Cleese so damn proud. My tears are welling in the corners of my eyes now, but I don't have time to concern myself whether you'd think me weak, brave, or all-together a mess. Some of my high school days I spent with you were the best I ever had, and though our time was short, both dandelions and dark-eyes juncos never stay as long as they should when the cold comes. So now my cold has come, my drink is no longer warm, and I just want you to know one last thing.

That time, I noticed that you got a haircut over the break, and I commented and said that it looked good. ... I saw this glimmer in your eye that I haven't seen in any other person since. Man or woman, child or adult, Lover or friend. Your soul is so bright, that I got to see a fraction of it escape through those...fire-warm brown eyes.

If nothing else in life matters...I'm glad I got to keep that with me.

Keep warm out there, C. Here's wishing you well.

[fatchance]

Fire eyes.

Yellow-eyed junco / junco ojos de lumbre (Junco phaeonotus) at Madera Canyon in the Coronado National Forest, Santa Cruz County, Arizona.

This is my newest candidate for bird with the best Spanish name. Outside of Mexico these birds only occur in the madrean sky islands of southeastern Arizona. 

[carnegiemuseumnaturalhistory]

Spring Birds in Your Backyard

by Annie Lindsay

On spring mornings that I’m not banding birds, I like to sit on my back porch with my binoculars, watching for movement at the edge of the woods behind my house, keeping my ears tuned in to songs and short, usually high-pitched, chip and contact notes. On mornings following a night of heavy migration, small flocks of mixed species often move through the trees, feeding on insects as they refuel for the next stage of migration. These flocks often have warblers, thrushes, tanagers, grosbeaks, or sparrows foraging in their own niches: warblers tend to be in mid- to high-canopy, whereas thrushes stay low and sparrows are often on the ground.

Occasionally, I’ll stand outside in a quiet, dark spot just before dawn and listen for the soft, high-pitched flight calls of migrants settling into habitat after a night of flying. I’m an avid birder: I love to see both new and familiar birds, and watch the species that use my yard and favorite birding patches.

Baltimore Orioles arrive in southwest PA by mid-to late-April. Providing fresh orange halves on spikes can bring them to your feeders from spring through fall migration.

Last year, many people discovered birding. We spent much of the spring working from home, perhaps gazing out of our windows at our bird feeders or backyard plants, and for the first time noticed birds that we didn’t know existed or didn’t realize visited our yards. The opportunity to learn about the diversity of birds in our area and develop a passion for watching them was a bright spot (both literally and metaphorically!) in an otherwise difficult year. The seasons progressed, and now we once again eagerly anticipate the arrival of beautiful and colorful migratory songbirds. Let’s explore common spring backyard birds in southwest Pennsylvania and how to attract and find them!

Dark-eyed Juncos are a species we usually associate with winter in southwest PA. They start singing in March, then do an elevational migration up the nearby mountains.

Each year, as the temperature warms, migratory birds move through our area in search of their breeding grounds. Although arrival timing is a bit variable between years due to annual variation in weather patterns, there is a predictable progression of species, so we know what to expect next relative to what we’ve already seen. The first, and often most conspicuous, to arrive are Red-winged Blackbirds and Common Grackles, usually in late February. They are followed by “peenting” American Woodcocks in early March, Eastern Phoebes in mid-March, and kinglets peaking in late-March. Keep your eyes to the sky any time you’re outdoors during these early spring weeks to watch for migrating waterfowl and raptors.

Rose-breasted Grosbeaks readily visit feeders with black oil sunflower seeds or safflower seeds usually in early- to mid-May before moving off into the forest to set up breeding territories.

By April, more songbirds, including vireos, swallows, early warblers, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher (a tiny bird with a wheezy song), House Wren, and the fan favorite, Gray Catbird make their way through our region, many remaining here to set up their breeding territories. In May, the migration floodgates open and some of the most brilliantly plumaged birds we’ve ever seen, like Baltimore Oriole, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Ruby-throated Hummingbird, Scarlet Tanager, Indigo Bunting, and several warblers, may visit our yards and feeders, along with the less flashy, but equally beautiful, sparrows and thrushes.

Orioles readily come to feeders with orange halves, especially during migration, and seed-eating species like grosbeaks, buntings, and sparrows often visit feeders with sunflower or other seeds (or, in the case of many sparrows, clean up seeds on the ground under feeders!). Hummingbirds come to feeders with nectar (four parts water to one part white sugar, please avoid using food dyes or commercial nectar that has been dyed red). Most of these species are insectivorous, especially during spring migration, and are often observed picking things like caterpillars, midges, and spiders from foliage.

Yellow Warblers are often recognized by their signature “sweet sweet I’m so sweet!” song. You may see them flitting through small woody plants like dogwoods as they forage for caterpillars.

In addition to the migratory species that we see and hear in the spring, many birds that are year-round residents also frequent our yards. Black-capped and Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, White-breasted Nuthatches, Carolina Wrens, five species of woodpeckers (Downy, Hairy, Red-bellied, Pileated, and Northern Flicker, plus two more if we’re lucky – Red-headed Woodpecker and Yellow-bellied Sapsucker), and the colorful American Goldfinch, Northern Cardinal, and Eastern Bluebird mix with migratory birds. Most of these species visit bird feeders filled with sunflower or safflower seeds (chickadees, titmice, cardinals, nuthatches, woodpeckers), suet (woodpeckers, wrens), nyjer seed (finches), and mealworms (bluebirds, titmice, chickadees).

Gray-cheeked Thrushes are cryptic and secretive, but can be found skulking on the forest floor in mid- to late-May before they continue northward migration. They have a beautiful, flutey song and a distinctive call note.

One of the best ways to attract birds to your yard is planting native trees, shrubs, wildflowers, and other plants. Native plants are hosts for a high diversity of insects, especially during their larval stages, and provide nutritious seeds and fruit, all of which are important food resources for birds. These plants are also valuable as cover for safety and nest sites. Although often overlooked, a source of clean, fresh water, as simple as a bird bath or as complex as a pond with a bubbler or waterfall, can make your yard especially attractive to birds. And one of the easiest and most popular ways to attract birds for close viewing is providing bird food in clean, safe feeders. I recommend visiting your local bird feeding specialty store.

You may see all of the birds mentioned in this blog in your yard, but this is a non-exhaustive list and you may even see something unexpected. Visiting a local birding hotspot with complex and diverse habitats is certainly worth the effort as well. Birding these spots several times throughout the season will reward you with an impressive list and will boost your knowledge of natural history. The combination of a good pair of binoculars and a field guide with identification tips, range maps, and text about habitat is one of the best ways to maximize your birding, whether at home or in the field.

Please visit CMNH’s blog page to find bird ID tips and field guide recommendations.

The Audubon Society put together a great guide to the best binoculars at various price ranges.

You can put your bird observation skills to good use (or further develop those skills) by participating this spring in a broad survey of local wildlife and plants called the City Nature Challenge. The observation portion of this event is April 30 – May 3.

Annie Lindsay is the Bird Banding Program Manager at Carnegie Museum of Natural History’s Powdermill Nature Reserve. Museum employees are encouraged to blog about their unique experiences and knowledge gained from working at the museum.

[bouwzfeed]

How to Identify Small Red Finches?!

Winter is finch season, when those northern nomads sweep down in raiding parties, show up without warning, stay for an hour or a week, and disappear. They are movers, unpredictable, edgy, always peeking over the horizon.

The very inconsistency of finches is one of their greatest attractions. For most bird watchers, there is a spurt of adrenaline when the feeder is suddenly commandeered by evening grosbeaks or pine siskins, or when crossbills put in their not-quite-believable appearance. Chickadees and juncos and downy woodpeckers carry their own brand of pleasure, a comfort born of knowing they are always there, but it is the unexpected that brings a smile to our faces.

There are one or two exceptions, just as you would expect from the unexpected. House finches are ubiquitous and predictable, showing up regularly at nearly every feeder on the continent. Goldfinches, which have their own society and movements, can almost be counted on to appear at certain seasons.

Perhaps it is because we see them so irregularly that many of the finches make us pause, momentarily stymied. What is that thing? Sure, five years ago there was a flock at the feeder for a week, and an instant submersion into finch identification, but since then, nothing. Memory fades and becomes clouded by information and the passage of time. You know that one of them had wing bars, or streaks, or an eye patch, but which one?

The Haemorhous Finches

Haemorhous is the Latin name for the genus that includes house, purple, and Cassin’s finches, and many bird watchers use the term to avoid having to mention all three each time.

These three are the ones that cause the most identification problems for bird watchers. Although they’re nomadic, they are more common than most of the other finches. All three species can be found at the same feeders in some parts of North America, and they look almost alike.

Females

Females are more difficult to identify, but are still fairly distinctive. Female house finches are basically plain brown birds. Their underparts are light to medium brown, with blurry brown streaks not much darker than the color of the breast. The head is brown with brown crown streaks; the back is darker brown with blurry brown streaks. The female house finch is a plain brown, streaky bird, more apt to be mistaken for a sparrow, or a female indigo or lazuli bunting, than anything else.

Pine Siskin

The pine siskin is a small, brown, streaky finch that superficially resembles females of some of the other small finches. It is smaller than any female finch it might be confused with, small enough to be distinctively so. It also has wing bars, mostly white but sometimes tinged with yellow, and a yellow patch on the wing and at the base of the tail. The most striking feature is the bill, which is so small and thin that it is hard to believe that the pine siskin is actually a finch.

Redpolls

 Redpolls are close to being most bird watchers’ favorite winter finch. Every few years they pour out of the Arctic in late fall, and rather than stopping at the United States–Canada border they just keep going, in swirling flocks of tiny, pale, unwary, chittering birds that gather in fields, on roadsides, and at feeders. Waking to find a flock of redpolls at the feeder makes the winter for most people.

So Much for the Easy Part

Unfortunately, there are two kinds of redpolls. Actually, some scientists think there may be more. For the time being, two is more than enough.

As befits the name, the common redpoll is the common one, at least in the parts of North America that all but a few observers ever see. In winter, the vast majority of birds that move south are common redpolls.

Hoary redpolls are the more consistently northern, but a few birds do come south with their cousins, and this is when identification gets tough. Separating common and hoary redpolls is a massively difficult problem, confounded by age, feather wear, sex, subspecies, and variation. Ten-page technical articles have been written on the problem, and even if you’ve red (and understood) them, there are birds that refuse to be easily categorized

[stupendoustrashmagazine]

A 10-pp. selection of poems

Personage The terrace offers a point. From this point a view. It's only a stop-off; it assumes the motion requisite for temporary stays will continue. The speculative friction required to stop those passing through would require planned extinction; would require war against generations of persistence across biome, suffering & misery magnified it remains threatened always. Building requires digging. Digging creates hollows to be filled. A move past botanicals—it doesn’t exist. A pulse in the web. Walk toward beyond the view: journey’s luck to close in on production. Pace picks up, dusk’s dis- appearing light invites one in: welcome.   Prelude Tonight the act of naming fell through the floor. We speak permeable solids inflected by light. Skull’s grid moves units indistinctly: windshield & palette cross paths, hatch an Ovidian shift, difixiones to devotio; the faux-gorithm teases pantheon from closet, traces flotilla’s down, hot air balloons, celebrating you or prairie fair. You’ll learn to kill that hunger for thunderhead drift. I follow shapes of your speech, attend to your syntax, taste your configuration; to keep up I sketch stick figure, code hypertext script cascading in style, the result of which confirms, again: we’re lost. Plot is a plait’d plat, flatland destination & another assemblage? I want aura to invite aural meiosis, aurora splitting into rural roads, for the bassoon quartet to be forgiven for plastic bag reeds on my direction, for aria to, moody, move into a different mode & travel out through spring’s open window; I want the racket splenetic melancholy, for dynamic accompaniment fit for unfashionable passion, the like. That state of exilium you described as a quantum between. Always pain hover triangulated. Frame Matisse with me, guilty stokes both— say the magnolia blooms shall remain & not at the expense of any other but they do not. Creek diverted, river dead: suck’d dry wax & cone though still dragonflies are purple, abdomen metallic sets of curvature & husk. Nearby: field of lightning. We walk through fjords of light forking down, resisting electrocution, naturally. The taste of our nakedness waking in early in your bed, black walnut leaves catching first October light. If I leave the house or library I sit on benches in Walmart or go to the Coralville mall alone, growing frosting in my chest & English ivy in my sinuses, scribble notes with my fork-tongue alone. Walk with me this once, again, into notional forest, ash-grey landscape dotted in umber, newborn beetles radiating, cobalt blue.   Skykomish in Summer In Goldbar Washington boys crossed river with driftwood staves feet slick-step between slime & rock, underbelly of serpentine but liquefied, algal nets stretch’d between toes, Like scales without edge—stiffened Cold after crossing they crawl’d up & into caverns allowing in fractions of sun but they felt cradled in a way shielded, intimacies there before they dove into round pools spun by spit current’s swirls, the bank of the cove gritty enough for a grip as they’d climb out out of sorts, alive they’d look at the congregation from which they just emerged tangle of nets, sunken conflagrations their bodies against the wake pressed a force there, quiet, endless, sound moving through medium beckoning, shape taking a form inky jar, turbine spat out from the bottom of an oil well.   Grass Cuts Nyanza Street. South Tacoma—we’re on A hill & approach it, tall grass, foreclosure. Blackberry brambles thick on the lawnslope purple, thorns & stickers, irritable touch. Boss climbs roofs with too steep a pitch; Hauls mowers from mud when I mire it Good in a ditch. His daughter today works with us, we weedwhack waist-high grass, rake clippings & tufts long enough to be hay in neat quadrants. They steam mornings we make it out as early as seven. A canopy borders the two-acre lot. I stare – emptying’s substance against nothingness of total inattention’s default setting. Metal asphalt shingles, roof’s pitch steep Low ground valley & everywhere: unhinged Botany thrives. Ivy plaits helices Around five-feet in diameter firs, in follow some twenty feet up when Jamie grabs a pitchfork. See something. It skitters through raked mounds, Goes through tunnels punctured By tines or cleat-roller aerating the lawn She shanks its body up against weed- blocker & brick. A metallic pling rings fades, she scoops it somewhere— this brought up her enjoyment killing, dressing, & cooking fowl. We move more grass I looking for insects, think of meat saws yawning day & night do they Day & night, fumbling—sound like chain saws or Colorado cattle feedlots, cottonwoods standing by during a drought, the sugar factory’s honey-butter burnt hair & soccer cleats left for week in a car. Mulch, juncos, midmorning sun on, sun off, Rake, return, pile, killing rabbits once we snapped their necks wrong, twice partial Breaks, botching it, both shaking we Shared an acute horror in our optics. Then we crushed their skulls with a hammer, But that’s when we lived near the volcano, when the halcyon sensation when standing at the bottom of Nisqually glacier, the sheaves of receding rose-grey gravel in aggregate felt like meteoroid field sent to grave resting place, armatures of old growth First & hemlocks in steep fractals jagged landings in glaciated river so thick with silt it looked an ash-blue sleeve. We take HUSKY 55-gal. trash bags of grass to the organic waste dump. We smell like gasoline & two-cylinder oil & grease. When I get home my house mama says Pew-whee! You smell like Marty; you smell like something that kills.   Shards What was it that came out the water in a sled a Wayward gesture young-&-stuffed Mess to common rendition Duchamp’s Pearl Neckless? In his version The sledgehammer fell square to carcass/shard/caress. You wanted/saved like anyone else wanted, A sequence of diadems, diamondic scales on A yellow python’s back. Be-figure, a mole Amongst slag pits, a slog truce from igneous slab. Bats tunnel boroughs, funnel rigmarole We keep one ray or dot of spun molybdenum— Torque at the end of the…—that glint relieves Grog, luster, a clutch lets cable go its single, slackening line. True fundament! come to the party— From up there, from below? Come beat through this bog’s Excrement, creakily swung skew joints, fallen centurions, Carve away gluttony,—an economic model Levels the field of every thistle’s purple demarcation. Remains disappear. Binary caskets Glisten polyurethane on oak grab it… If - you – get – to – the – place To – get – you – the – records: Prefabricated dirt tastes discard bottles, Skittling crevice, crick or face, collections Binding fractures. That which goes unseen. Make & model, blue castes. Signature mummies. Huffing. That kinetic thrill Pushing hammers through Masonite, Bulls snorting horns at a flag The very requiem of the horse’s eye A black so dark it blued the muscle in deafening Postures of grey fog: a way: body: yes, a shard, Blight-bit, a descending distend, steep bends— A weather system approaches Centripetally, a large unformed cat, To distillate—nothing—to pray to the grommet, One ventricle, alas—poor valve, the idea Of the river. The river. Is. Itself. Course vessel in a Losing resonance a tributary vacillation tip-toed beyond A materiality that is, is not, any old trick.   Spilling the Flour Began not thrush’s stamp, nor cardinal blue whistle but The sour flack going out, the waist line spilt. Emptying cylinders combed in sheet metal corrugate, Fill another vision, the conveyor belt muscle Persuasion. Sometimes a harvest sits like pheasants Before buckshot, freeze-frame, promise cannon— What will be. Corn stalks chopped at maggot root twist Wind crowing a parade, sans confetti, sans soleil. Platoon the distant mist, forgetting it’s metal multiplied In numbers not quantity. Not fog. That’s fire But the wound continuum in ears splits hair mimics a mime Brown cerumen flax spreads flat lays down in- To a line. Elements bind fetch needle & borrow thread Stitch from denim you see the voices hear. Spiders don’t mean to. Bats garner a wick of light Against normalcy of shadow. When is not Important. Con memory commemorate ingrown toe- Nail sunk into rib-line fleshed out for sake Of sake of being. Forsaken lake: equivalent to constrictor Vine, not theorem. Carpet moves imagined Equestrians run between alder beetles the abandoned Horses heaving in the meadow along the orange Vector. The chemilume incision furcates the dark shells Guarding liquefied innards, the many legs.   The Awful Cutlery Traveling by Greyhound between Dominguez- Escalante and Grand Mesa National forest, We’re full enough In the filled up four-wheel lurch on blacktop I-70 elegantly swung across Secluded Rocky Mountain scrag. “This shit’s too country” a woman remarks. You see what she means. The rosaries Of apricot, peach, cherry, and plum disintegrate Vineyard to vineyard to bottle To California, mid-stride Maybe she means. Maybe Damian The off-shore welder tells me about hanging above The water, rigged up, slung out, strapped in, Gluing thousand-degree metal to solid stack Rigs, working twelves till three months pass So he can go—“I go everywhere”—to complicate Home—“Love Alabama but I need to see it all The whole shit.” Dusk is a disk with a predictable arc. I’m here twenty years, this red land. From bottom canyon ditch combs Of bygone eon drag across mesa, leaving scar, Evidence of water, wind, shaggy coats left To bear, bear themselves, on other creatures Pitching, tent-by-tent, a story, a new story, old. The mother tells you, you & me, of Rocky Mountain Flats, the Climax Uranium Mill, A fire beginning with a crack, croaking a Groan to a glow, plutonium then, dizzied in dust, Vapored amoeba flung across the whole Front Range. Cows were the first to show up Without usual parts: eye, ear or triple-tongue. Do I believe anything I say anymore? Set that head against Plexiglas. Feel the chill— A lavender fork makes an albino tarantula Of sky, yet there’s a merge, the speech Corks off. Into each direction, asymmetry Between passengers a music nonetheless, The hiddenness behind tall sediment walls Now, this cutlery mass Stalking hungry movers, clawing at the dirt To reveal the intact pores of a distant femur.   Safe/Way Courtesy Clerk In the aisles of nondescription halogen baleen Sifts shop-cart rift-racket & geriatric dances. Old/new toothpick paradigm cues a mist/turn: Old is to new as young is to old, meaning Painting the urn in synthesizer blue still undoes. The unheard chambers are sweeter. Polyethylene is a mon-on- monomer ladder of Chain-stacks, bindings, writes the blurb We’re all in this together. Savings save you From it, from it you’ll be saved the lapse: Western tanager memorizes its own memory Launched in citrus beneath the varied canopy. Really: in this Safeway a woman chutes Hundreds of one-liters into the re/cycle Machine. She leans on cart rail, no wheel. Her child helps he laughed he threw them into The bin, the coins emerged. Someone said Music moves from a fix-point fence post, studded Down into ground. He’s right—what is there to do But do, bag up a customer’s purple cabbage Dreams stuff them sweet potato mush- Room into room, sacked. They’d blister From oxygen’s lack they’d try to make it, try To survive. Wouldn’t it be courteous To curtsy before bags bulge as balloons stuffed With vision? Even in tulip & rose section I Hand out the foxtail elixir, all the loot; were they Bodies turned down, turned into what now, soup? The day is butternut squash but wouldn’t A lizard do today let’s get all the gutter newts Recalling now how Scooby returned From a long drive he threw an iguana On the chopping block on the counter top In the apartment he was making soup He sawed off its head. What was inside The eyes? Nothing much. Eye cones con, resemble The black glass of a tick’s back. You’ll try To reach in & what — find out who looks back Tell yourself that’s you looking back. A gaze. Scooby ran cool water over the head, on it. Its jaw opened and closed again & again. “This is good soup that’s what happens After the head’s cut off.” What would the body Do after, what voice would reclaim itself, Would reconvene re — gather protest against scores Settled, dust made fall silk, unnoticed? What takes when taken back, how’ll things Exactly as they are be exactly as they’d been? What music shapes the marina, the guitar Rustling out a poison ivy arpeggio to become The place and the things of things as they are? How do you bargain or take the lead For the dreaded duet? The mouth opens cilia Tongue juts out pink premonition the sky boom Nitro’s paisley maize radished in the Word-Ward. Blue pollen doesn’t exist but when the man Who looks one-hundred buys the dyed-blue orchid & says “it’s for my” I cut him off & ask but He just laughs & says “it’s just a flower it’s just An empty bag” & walks out, away, toward Automatic sensor doors, glass partitions that open Like megafauna with a belly full of a world on fire.

[leowyattv]

Steep Grade Fadeaway

Day is a Monday, lease On life’s right side of the low- Lying greens, order’d by law, Creases, offering a hand to hench- Men handy for odd-jobs re- Pression & phobia with wolf spider Ire stocking its stuffing, venom Plenum spokes from eight- legged gait, unipolar police Police who didst to citizen do South bayway sword maneuver —dune ballooning din—kill them :: moths from mothta spread— I’m a member of.— online soap seas cap’n gown loan shark says-he’s—sore lark admin the sole soul food restaurant— vessels contain company that’s it—company THE THING IS IS VANDAL SURE-FOOT’D SHOE YOU’LL DISAPPOINT ME —Dianne of diagnostics Prism blend’d light, you mean honestly ~ i ~, ere Administration's penchant for pens & Cagey humors, pent up & alloted limited stock On pinterest’s pinner plot Would extraction begin, even Helices interr, interject Baby Christ’s liverwurst extrusion, Redux of suede luxe ever does thine slow- f[x] fool on a lark's wing in folly err; But general, the nut sacks, please, topp'd Sweetener glaze (never for gays) Sweat frosting from ecclesiast's evac- Uation jizzum, eat- ery just a- Round the bend over good That IndyCar 500 cock. So: so-so soho block where— Erstwhile free- thinking myth- ology passes heavy limbs Creaking in wind [was thinking we’d] Flower fourteen curls Back & forth, Codify desert sublation, Cue gay porn infinity loop on eternity's Cloud backup-drop forever projected, For your children, Mike, your kids. & this — this (my) ((his)) cursive slick mercurium thick, pen flood in- flux counter-sunk & dumb- Bows, ties, sells quill at marketplace With expertise’s durable advisory, reed Screeching in its rubber friction drift, which quells not squad disruption, squall, Abuts up with a spade to fabled proprietary lines; Umpire enraptured, raptor Pack kinetics study anonymous groups, For scrimmage near miss Miss, the MRSA Merck's Near-fatal tithe. < h o w t i g h t b i r c h b a r k f l a k e s o f f t o g e t h e r ash :: coils :: winch :: draw- in-the-dark rhythms inn-like, quiet, keeping with Queen Mariah Carey's Kierkegaardian wish :: Of lactic acid & Jehoshaphat Edicts, alliances spat at by Jehu So cordage tension its elastics tests :: Hell moans red Waves a porcupine pelt let through Spires sharp with bone, in- Scriptions of pass’d down teaching King-toppling :: hull groan gore, little system submarine ultrasonics, Realty a reality drive, divisions Splints tack’d on ulterior Versions, separation goods Another marketplace subsumption, a- Ah ah, Monarch’s ampersand Armory & orphanage growth paradigm. Mama, in the maw Of a monster it appears When spat to mangrove’s entanglements In whose rootless cloak Womb-like repair’d did I float On Tidal pressure’s pat turns Of wave phrase & coastal sound. Grammy’s telegram Faroff drawing graph’d out In double bass clef, whitebread from the top of Wonderbread ridge, Omi? [[[ hives, hexagon life-rafts Ashkanazi Jews descendents in whose Nameless lineage bow’d heads lean past stalk & branch ]]] Holocaust a hologram to fool’s corner; Survived, devised lives, could I Then, they this disbelief hold After the fact hush, scattering creed, Belief like layers of sound same Overlaid, distortion via copying; this Terrain vague makes us Hungry for disbelief & away,— Shame at sensation’s predicate, we’re not we’re not were not them—then. Characters glynne & surrowe, iyse foes may say will not into world will For will’s sake. Gardner rescinds Offer for cylinder Heads, standing wave pressurized In tubular body, met with lip Aperture shifts & valve Select valve depressions trumpet Walls down, & Solomon’s temple’s walls Shake each brick laid If coded into video- game; mechanics of Megafauna’s jaws dent don’t puncture, dental spread of broom’s Bristles or concrete finishing screed. The lady grabs the keys & allows generations a soul’s Movement to buoy faith :: Clay takes on new shapes for Good, naked bracing Against surface, thrust short Rink’s fire firefly-stud’d, freight’d glows The fright force against density Darkness offers, suspension Cradle, safe durational rock shock’d By freight trains penetrative Expansion, gaseous fits in confines small; Cobbler’s shop a shack, canister Tremolo goes to tumble-wash, Eviction of nuns at Juniper Monastery, things object through Inaction, plants guard fruit from gulls’ gullets, Gourd raft or instrument & species disembark :: Parnassus lamb on spits, spurn Wager’d against poignant Stellation of spur’s star’d points, stud’d. It is rather lonely. Welter Weights waste excess swells In waist’s weight-gain, Spotted once then trimmed, deemed High hinderance if loot’s to be tuned up, then taken; Blood from thin laceration Above the right eye releases threads Of blood; hand held, yes Triads, amps per kilojoule of One grain of sand, which Between toes react, duststorm Shakes clapboards & window-garments, The fornification of conceivable indivisible parts :: Things poole gryn, Graham to you This, saturate, this saturnalia. Wherever sea rummages earth’s crust Sage’s city wisdom, said to overturn off- Compass underpass or Souls inhabitance Herenow splatoon ever in unum Pluribus, A well. If it gets to, it’s off in bramble patch again; Cavernous sediment down- Loads by way of remaining in stasis, Adaptation & change proceed With gradients of such nuance one is Sure as one can be Organisms are a constancy unmoved. English ivy, spry & welcoming Enough to juncos & finch-song, Strangles any individual offering A vertical support, a tall host, From whose apex, were One to climb douglas fir In that Spanaway house’s lot, one would note Yellow blazes from Scotch broom, an infantry Under which camas flower & prairie grass Die off; ecologists hear & provisions provide public. Nova scorch Canopy, What’s happened to it all Primates of later eon ask? Sand shook; mud slid, loosed from Roots once anchoring mass, Hook enters the base Of the bait, loop line Doubles & knots, casting out guesswork When fisheries bring ghostnets to Foreground & shore. Rasas. & family still Standing :: Burgess brothers Twin lute & nylon-string, Summerfield Tectosilicate feldspar recovers & with Katy & makes musical games to train good weapons, voice leading & harmony Accompaniment, just.— It promised. no ~ i ~, quotient, quarrel Quest-kill objective, quarantine, Can inquiry proceed experimental Without explorational? INgenuine (this venue, come now) To even ask, but to Figure this out buy redrawing What was that, Those shapes making layers first, Maybe dimensions, second? Sinkholes clog eventually. Can yonder’s crayon-wax Out rear windshield Make out landscape’s Attendees & absentees alike? The tipoff bid for children’s hospital Sutures lawmaker to industry Profit-centers, pediatric morbidity rallies, Shipping vessels on glass beds spit Beads of bleach, sleet freeze Hardening to barnacles, sharkfin decor, Trim efficiencies, sin, sign, nature, what Remains in speech decoder’s translation? Mama’s got through villanelle Format, perforated loss, refrains Rebounding sound given shape By lack surrounding it, cradling it, even. 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