#scrub oak

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

"Pandora, Worrying About What She Is Doing, Finds a Way into the Valley through the Scrub Oak," from Always Coming Home by Ursula K. Le Guin

Look how messy this wilderness is. Look at this scrub oak, chaparro, the chaparral was named for it and consists of it mixed up with a lot of other things, but look at this shrub of it right here now. The tallest limb or stem is about four feet tall, but most of the stems are only a foot or two. One of them looks as if it had been cut off with a tool, a clean slice across, but who? what for? This shrub isn’t good for anything and this ridge isn’t on the way to anywhere. A lot of smaller branch-ends look broken or bitten off. Maybe deer browse the leafbuds. The little grey branches and twigs grow every which way, many dead and lichened, crossing each other, choking each other out. Digger-pine needles, spiders’ threads, dead bay leaves are stuck in the branches. It’s a mess. It’s littered. It has no overall shape. Most of the stems come up from one area, but not all; there’s no center and no symmetry. A lot of sticks sticking up out of the ground a little ways with leaves on some of them—that describes it fairly well. The leaves themselves show some order, they seem to obey some laws, poorly. They are all different sizes from about a quarter of an inch to an inch long, but each is enough like the others that one could generalise an ideal scrub-oak leaf: a dusty, medium dark-green color, with a slight convex curve to the leaf, which pillows up a bit between the veins that run slanting outward from the central vein; and the edge is irregularly serrated, with a little spine at each apex. These leaves grow irregularly spaced on alternate sides of their twig up to the top, where they crowd into a bunch, a sloppy rosette. Under the litter of dead leaves, its own and others’, and moss and rocks and mold and junk, the shrub must have a more or less shrub-shaped complex of roots, going fairly deep, probably deeper than it stands aboveground, because wet as it is here now in February, it will be bone dry on this ridge in summer.

There are no acorns left from last fall, if this shrub is old enough to have borne them. It probably is. It could be two years old or twenty or who knows? It is an oak, but a scrub oak, a low oak, a no-account oak, and there are at least a hundred very much like it in sight from this rock I am sitting on, and there are hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands more on this ridge and the next ridge, but numbers are wrong. They are in error. You don’t count scrub oaks. When you can count them, something has gone wrong. You can count how many in a hundred square yards and multiply, if you’re a botanist, and so make a good estimate, a fair guess, but you cannot count the scrub oaks on this ridge, let alone the ceanothus, buckbrush, or wild lilac, which I have not mentioned, and the other variously messy and humble components of the chaparral. The chaparral is like atoms and the components of atoms: it evades. It is innumerable. It is not accidentally but essentially messy. This shrub is not beautiful, nor even if I were ten feet high on hashish would it be mystical, nor is it nauseating; if a philosopher found it so, that would be his problem, but nothing to do with the scrub oak. This thing is nothing to do with us. This thing is wilderness. The civilized human mind’s relation to it is imprecise, fortuitous, and full of risk. There are no shortcuts. All the analogies run one direction, our direction. There is a hideous little tumor in one branch. The new leaves, this year’s growth, are so large and symmetrical compared with the older leaves that I took them at first for part of another plant, a toyon growing in with the dwarf oak, but a summer’s dry heat no doubt will shrink them down and warp them. Analogies are easy; the live oak, the humble evergreen, can certainly be made into a sermon, just as it can be made into firewood. Read or burnt. Sermo, I read; I read scrub oak. But I don’t, and it isn’t here to be read, or burnt. It is casting a shadow across the page of this notebook in the weak sunshine of three-thirty of a February afternoon in Northern California. When I close the book and go, the shadow will not be on the page, though I have drawn a line around it; only the pencil line will be on the page. The shadow will be then on the dead-leaf-thick messy ground or on the mossy rock my ass is on now, and the shadow will move lawfully and with great majesty as the earth turns.

The mind can imagine that shadow of a few leaves falling in the wilderness; the mind is a wonderful thing. But what about all the shadows of all the other leaves on all the other branches on all the other scrub oaks on all the other ridges of all the wilderness? If you could imagine those for even a moment, what good would it do? Infinite good.

-- Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (273-5)

[crudlynaturephotos]

[concordlimeridgegarden]

Scrub Oak. Quercus berberidifolia.

Slow growing, this one is about 6 years old and is still only a foot tall.

[ookaookaooka]

the ranch i used to go to camp at as a kid and still volunteer at occasionally (which is now more like a nature preserve slash ranch slash camp slash cemetery) has been working on a forestry project for a long time and now after ten years (TEN YEARS) was finally able to do a controlled burn 🥹🥹🥹🥹 i'm gonna cry im so happy

[werewolfoffeverswamp]

i need the minds of every native floridian that says “florida is ugly the natural scenery is so boring” to embiggen AND QUICK before i start EXPLODING minds instead

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from The Revelator:

At first glance the hills and valleys covered in coastal sage scrub oak are little more than a featureless green swath. On closer inspection, however, you can recognize it for what it truly is: the beating heart of one of the most genetically rich ecosystems on the planet. Birds, insects, mammals, fungi, and even some other plants find refuge under the boughs of coastal sage scrub oak, while water drawn up from its deep roots spreads out to sustain ground-dwelling organisms.

Species name:

Coastal sage scrub oak or Nuttall’s scrub oak (Quercus dumosa)

Description:

The coastal sage scrub oak rarely grows more than about 7 feet tall, but it can spread outward a great distance thanks to its lateral branches and multiple trunks. The trees’ small, spiny leaves emerge in the spring soft and bright green, but gradually toughen and darken to a dusty dark green by summer. Their acorns tend to be thin and elongated, almost conical.

Where it’s found:

The coastal sage scrub oak, as its name implies, is found along coastal areas in Southern and Baja California. The full extent of its range is the subject of spirited debate, as it shares many similar physical characteristics with other scrub oaks found more inland. In San Diego County, the remaining populations of coastal sage scrub oak exist in fragmented populations, usually in wildlife reserves, like islands in a sea of urban development.

IUCN Red List status:

Endangered

Major threats:

Urban development destroyed much of this tree’s habitat, and its remnant population still faces this threat, along with several others. The introduction of grasses and other highly flammable nonnative species, like eucalyptus, have increased fire frequency and intensity. Escaped ornamental plants and grasses can outcompete oak saplings for light, space, and water. And climate change is resulting in disruptions to precipitation, which stresses all populations.

My favorite experience:

While collecting tissue samples after a spring rain, I took a moment to look at the tracks imprinted into the soft ground. Animal prints were everywhere — mule deer, raccoon, fox, opossum, roadrunner, and what I hoped were those of an exceedingly large bobcat and not a mountain lion. I rarely saw any of these animals during the day but, thanks to the rain, it was clear that they were all around me — present but hidden within the oaks.

My favorite experience:

What I could see, however, were the many birds flying from tree to tree, reminding me of fish swimming among outcrops of coral. Insects buzzed all around. Galls created by tiny wasps were starting to grow from some of the oaks. By summer, some of these galls would grow to the size and color of a peach, bobbing slowly in wind scented with wildflowers, sunbaked dust, and sagebrush. I knew that under my feet deep roots reached toward the precious groundwater that would sustain the forest during the dry season, and spreading from those roots were mycorrhizal fungi that would work with the oaks to support each other.

I grew up among the firs, cedars, hemlocks, and maples of the Pacific Northwest. I always thought forests needed to be composed of tall, majestic trees christened with carpets of rolling moss. Yet this sea of small, scraggly oaks held so much life. My perspective grew. It’s one thing to read about this ecosystem and another matter entirely to truly see it and understand how precious it is.

[nothwell]

inspired by a recent poll

[rachelsrandomsphotos]

Taken at Malabar Scrub Sanctuary in Malabar, FL

[asphaltvalkyrie]

Its been really rainy here so I haven’t been filling my bird feeder as much because I don’t want the food getting soggy and growing mold/bacteria... I’ve also started putting peanuts into it.

...The birds have noticed.  Oh my have they noticed.  So much so that they know to sit on the back porch and scold me when its sunny out and the feeder is empty. Well, not so much the finches and sparrows because they’re chill, but damn do the jays, chickadees and titmice get MAD. They probably think they’re intimidating me into feeding them with their scratchy little shrieks and trills, but the joke’s on them because I think its adorable that I get bossed around by a bunch of irate fluffballs, especially when their combined weight is probably comparable to that of a large strawberry or perhaps a small apple.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

The mind can imagine that shadow of a few leaves falling in the wilderness; the mind is a wonderful thing. But what about all the shadows of all the other leaves on all the other branches on all the other scrub oaks on all the other ridges of all the wilderness? If you could imagine those for even a moment, what good would it do? Infinite good. -- Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (275)

[curtailedwhale]

Orange and yellow moot. like an oak in the Fall....

I will make you a picnic of homemade soup and bread, and we will go to the mountains to enjoy the colors...

[crudlynaturephotos]

[undiscovered-horizon]

[The one where Sanji is jealous of the attention you're getting and he takes advantage of the effect he has on you.]

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The banquet has been going on for a good few hours now. All of the Straw Hats were surprisingly infallible in playing their roles to infiltrate the creme de la creme of pirates: Usopp and Nami, dressed as waiters, could befriend anyone into telling them something interesting. Luffy is taken for much stupider and thus less dangerous than he really is and some looser lips aren't afraid to spill a secret or two around him. Zoro and you are just supposed to be in the in the background, watching and listening. So far so good.

Sanji's mission is to listen in to the gossip that drunk sailors often like to exchange with bartenders but he has found himself in a terrible situation. On one hand, he couldn't blow his cover and start a fight. On the other, he is beyond done with the unsavoury comments about you the men drinking by the bar are exchanging. The only thing that curbs his burning jealousy is the knowledge that he's the only one to know the answers to their questions and speculations about your prowess in several private matters. Despite his fury, he can't really blame them. His own thoughts are escaping his grasp whenever he glances at your seemingly disinterested exterior, made all the more enticing in a long, red dress that belongs more to opera houses than bars frequented by pirates.

He's been scrubbing this one glass for a good five minutes. If he tightens his grip even just a little, the dish is bound to break into a thousand little pieces. Finally, he sets the champagne flute down and makes his way to the chattering men.

"Hate to be the joykiller, gentlemen," he speaks up casually, never giving away even a hint of his anger, "but she is not interested in you."

The three men look him up and down. Either they are ignorant to the concept of hygiene and sunscreen or they really are old enough to be your father. One of them gives him a contemptuous grin, uncovering a row of gold teeth.

"And what do you know, bar boy?" the pirate asks in a hoarse voice.

Sanji leans against the bar counter on his arms. "That rum you're drinking, Cruzan 9?" he nods his head towards the glasses with unfinished drinks. "She's more of a Caroni girl. A couple more zeros on the price tag, longer in the barrel, a rich bouquet of oak, caramel and berries." A charming, almost not arrogant, smile enters his face as he looks at the pirates with a look of superiority in his blue eyes. "Sophisticated palate for a sophisticated woman."

"Is that so?" The pirate leans towards Sanji. He's about to say something else but one of his drinking buddies stops him by putting an arm on his shoulder in a meaningful manner.

"How can you tell?" the other man asks. His voice is bright, filled with genuine curiosity. He hopes to learn something interesting about the mysterious beauty in red.

But Sanji isn't willing to share his secrets. "Comes with experience," he says in an interested voice. Then, to the pirates' dismay, he winks at them and goes back to wiping down his workplace.

"Gentlemen."

A familiar voice makes Sanji immediately look up from the counter he's been cleaning. With grace that only befits someone confident, you politely nod at the three men by the bar and make your way to Sanji. The pirates' eyes linger on you like the perceptive eyes of predators.

His hands move quickly and swiftly as he makes you a drink, knowing exactly what you opt for in similar circumstances - fake "bougie" parties that are insufferable while sober.

"King's Jubilee for my one true queen," he announces while sliding the cocktail glass towards you.

Looking at the drink, you purse your lips having noticed something.

"It's missing the cherry," you point out.

With faux humility, he places a hand over his heart. The heavy rings on his fingers shine slightly in the twilight of the open-air bar. "My most sincere apologies. If I may redeem myself, madam." He bows his head.

"Madam?" you repeat in confusion. "I thought I was a queen?"

Sanji chuckles in a low voice. Your wit and humour are only making you more beautiful in his eyes, always keeping up with his suave words and innuendos.

"I am but a humble servant, Your Highness," he drones the title.

The men sitting by the bar watch the scene with jealousy and fascination. It's beyond them how a bartender could one-up the most notorious of pirates but at the same time, they can't just look away from your flirtatious grin and the clear desire shining in your eyes.

Sanji takes one maraschino cherry out of the jar behind the counter and, holding it by the stem, offers the sweet treat to you. Leaning over the bar, you grab the dessert fruit with your teeth and pluck it from the stem, all the while studying Sanji's dark expression. He's thinking about something obscene, that's for sure.

Taking advantage of the short distance between you, he leans in to whisper something into your ear. The envious voyeurs can't hear his words over the loud music and laughter but they do see your sudden bashfulness. Your eyes momentarily cast down. Whatever that bartending boy has said, it made even a woman of your poise flustered.

Your breath hitches in your throat when Sanji places a soft kiss right below your ear, letting his warm lips brush against your jaw. Then, with weak knees and fuzzy thoughts, you take the drink and go back to your corner to continue meticulous observation of the more interesting guests.

Sanji meets the angered eyes of the proud, envious pirates. He doesn't seem to mind their hurt egos and the doom that it foretells. With a self-assured grin on his face, he asks them:

"Another round, my good gentlemen?"

[emperornorton47]

Aliso and Wood Canyons from Soka University

[grubloved]

making this my daydream flavor combo masterpost. a sweet nutty cheddar... maybe a dubliner? with woodsorrel and sumac. AND WALNUTS!! also i bet i could make such a fucking good carbonara with purslane mixed in at the end can you IMAGINE. the little fat acidic leaves. my god

additionally i am rotating brown butter brunost sourdough chocolate chip cookie in my head. with rosemary maybe or sage or thyme.... just rotating this idea.... and also thai basil pine soda .... thai basil anise clove vanilla birch beer.....

[writersdrug]

Ok and this is my last one sorry for spam

I’m a sucker for jealousy, but like not wanting to admit it, so for alpha omega thing he could notice that someone else smells like her (clothes got mixed together in laundry/she bumped into him on accident) and he goes on overdriv trying to a) show off b) harass other dude c) make her smell like him so much that’s all she smells like

No please come back I love you these-

Kinda nsfw

It's happened before; König's fallen victim to the occasional sergeant, too impatient to wait for an empty washer, taking the Colonel's laundry out while it's still sopping wet and tossing it into the dryer on someone else's cycle. It pisses him off to no end (again, he despises it when people touch his things). But he never manages to catch the cluprit; there are no cameras by the laundry room, and the scent of the aggressor is long gone by the time König pulls his load out of the dryer - now he smells like someone else (which is also an inconvenience, since his pretty little omega will throw a fit).

Not much he can do about it.

One particular day, he's rifling through the dresser you share with him, looking to see what you have so he can buy you what you don't (and maybe looking for a pair of panties to stuff in his pockets). He opens the drawer that holds your shirts - as soon as he starts rummaging through them, he smells something... not you, not him. Someone else.

He huffs, picking up one shirt after the other and sniffing them, aggravatedly tossing them behind him when he doesn't find the scent. It's not until he finally pulls out a shirt - no, not just any shirt. His favorite one, his shirt that you wear to bed with nothing else but your panties - that's the shirt that smells like someone else. Not you, not him.

He knows it's not your fault - you practically spend every second of the day with him. It only makes sense, that you'd fallen victim to the laundry aggressor.

He hears the shower turn off in your shared bathroom. He stands up slowly as you hum, putting on your sweatpants and one of König's shirts (it was an unspoken thing between the two of you, where he'd wear a shirt for a bit, then you'd steal it from the top of his laundry basket and wear it for the night - but that didn't mean anything, you swear you're still not happy with the arrangement).

You open the bathroom door and gasp, steam billowing out as you see all of your clothes on the floor. "König - what the hell are you doing?!"

He looks at you - the scent of your sweet shampoo and vanilla body scrub only adds fuel to the fire, complimenting your natural, caramel scent. His pupils dilate, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. He doesn't just see you - he sees his omega, his partner - the thought that you could have smelled like another Alpha had him reeling.

You can smell the heightening of his scent - he's angry, you can tell by the bitter edge to it - but it's missing the typical stench of iron. Instead, it's musky, smokey, and strong. It makes your omega purr, and you're digging your nails into your own palm to keep from baring your neck for him.

"König?" You ask, your voice meek and soft.

He's in front of you in two strides, grabbing you by your waist and shoving you back into the bathroom. You shriek when he hoists you onto the counter, cupping the back of your head before it can hit the mirror. Your mind is getting foggier by the second; your body is buzzing and weightless as he presses your face into his neck.

Spicy, warm cinnamon and oak fall upon you like a weighted blanket. You whine into his neck, overwhelmed yet needing more. Your hands grip his shirt tightly as you try to pull his broad chest closer to you - you want to feel his heart beating against your skin, warm muscles pressing against your palms.

He pulls back to kiss your cheek - it's the first time he's kissed you at all. He continues to lay them across your skin; your forehead, your other cheek, your temples... his hands grip your hips as he moves down to the thin skin of your neck. He lays a kiss against your throat, lips chapped and scalding, then dips his nose to your scent gland and inhales deeply. He groans, cock throbbing in his pants as you wash over his senses. He fights the urge to lick, to bite, to sink his teeth into the junction of your neck until you cry out-

He wants you more than anything - but not now, not like this. Not as a display of his claim, not to show you off as you wear his scent and his mark. He wants it when you want it, when you come to him, as both you and your omega.

He squeezes your hips, thick fingers tense in your soft flesh as you slide a hand up his clothed chest. With a sigh, he pulls away - you let out the most needy whine that he's ever heard, and his Alpha is rearing its head back and beating against the walls of his brain to take over. But he resists, standing up to his full height and looking down at you.

You're frazzled. Your pupils are blown wide open, body slouched against the mirror and legs dangling from the counter. You're panting, the rise and fall of your chest showing just how much your nipples perked to attention over the past minute. You're looking back at him with flushed skin and a confused, yet aroused expression.

"Wh... what was that?" You say breathlessly.

"Tut mir leid, mein liebe..." he mutters, bowing down to kiss the crown of your head, gently this time. "I don't know what came over me." He does, but he'd rather not have to explain it to you. Instead, he scoops up the puddle that is you, carefully carrying you from the bathroom and into the dorm.

"May I?" He asks, nudging his head to the bed. It's technically his, but you've nested in there as of recent, and he doesn't want to overstep any boundaries, especially with you so blissed out at the moment. But you nod, and he climbs into the nest, keeping you snug against him.

When he finally settles, and you feel the heavy exhale of his breath on your scalp, you speak. "Did something happen?"

He thinks for a moment. "No - but I'll be doing your laundry from now on, schatz."

He squishes you into his chest, signaling that the conversation is over - he won't say anything else about what happened. You're not complaining; you're a pile of happy omega, packed into your nest with your Alpha, and he just absolve you of a chore?

Hell yeah.