Yellow Spots Flying

Memorizing Nature — Sun, 06 May 2012 23:26:18 +0000

These birds have definitely eaten a lot of bananas and lemons. No seriously, they must have dipped themselves in modern mustard (as opposed to Dijon) or cheap custard. Their presence reminds the dandelions to bloom, and causes the daffodils to wither, outshone. Goldfinches, you see, migrate to their northern habitat at the same time as the sun, both gradually intensifying, sharing warmth. Pablo Picasso said, “Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot, others transform a yellow spot into the sun.”

Photo by E. Medline

If I hold a finch in my hand, will it make me incandescent, like a candle? Did this bird actually descend from the dinosaurs, in the same way amoebas propelled themselves from the sea to meet the worms?

Photo by E. Medline

What a bunch of show-off warbling granivores, electrifying their plumage because they crave attention, preferring conspicuous conceit to old-fashioned camouflage. Even the more muted females eclipse the other birds currently in flight. Goldfinches could be mistaken for pet budgies that escaped the cage, so strange do they seem in these drab parts. Yes, in these parts, too much brightness can seem unnecessary and vapid, like the smiley face. “I made a circle with a smile for a mouth on yellow paper, because it was sunshiny and bright,” said Harvey Ball, inventor of that iconic symbol.

Photo by E. Medline

If we hold a finch in our hands, will the world flare like a firework, dripping willow trails? Did this bird actually descend from the dinosaurs, in the same way black-and-white television got all classy and became high definition?

An Entrance Demure

Memorizing Nature — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 14:33:39 +0000

I walk in noise. A cold spring rain wallops the rock. Frogs shrill for a mate, and finches warble. Branches break under my feet, as I pick my way over last year’s discarded oak leaves, searching for trilliums. The flowers are scheduled to bloom right about now, after the snow has melted but before the earth goes green. It’s a dull period when most plants don’t feel like getting out of bed. April is a cautious time; the weather can’t be trusted – it warms and then cools again. So we wait. So life waits.

Are the trilliums out yet? I doubt it. Shy ferns unfurl among broken acorns. Moss stirs into wakefulness. There’s a beer-bottle cap here, and a dog’s old tennis ball there, but no trilliums. Maybe they won’t come out this year, but that’s what we always say. Their habit is to emerge wordlessly and vanish shortly afterward. By definition, they are ephemeral, rushing through their life cycle before the trees grow leaves and block the sun. Trilliums enjoy an existence without much competition. In a way, it’s lonely for them, but then again, they’re the best beauties out there. Timing is everything.

I climb down the south-facing rock face, hanging on to a layer of lichen. It must be too early for trilliums. We really should start a calendar and jot down when different plants emerge; then we’ll know exactly when to look. My plan is to admire, not to disturb. The trillium is a flower so sacred and vulnerable no one dares pick one, although the rules about protecting them aren’t well understood. “You can’t take a trillium,” folks say. “It’s against the law, I think. Somewhere, it’s against the law.”

Photo by E. Medline

Okay, there’s one, and hold on, there’s another. A few have gathered in a cluster. Some have already flowered, while others are getting ready. Each plant has three leaves, three sepals and three petals, designed in symmetrical harmony, as if by an artist who has discovered how to surpass prettiness. Suddenly, all sounds cease. The rain stops. The frogs hush because they have found their mates, and the finches rest in their nests, turning yellow. Now is the trilliums’ turn. I approach closer, and these small marvels, they nod modestly, seeming to appreciate their value on this land.

Photo by E. Medline