A hawk's meal (flash post)

I have never seen so many hawks. Does that mean there are more to see this year? Or does it mean something about my looking?

I am looking now, out my office window to the northwest at a large grey bird sitting vertically on a bent branch of a leaf-bare tulip poplar tree. I'd estimate the hawk is 60 feet up, and the tree has another 60 to go.  

No sign yet if this is a red-tail. The belly is white, wings and head are grey. I expect, when it finally takes flight, I'll see the familiar red-beige tinge on the pale spread of wings. And in the right light, the russet tail.

The bird is digesting. Earlier, a cry pierced my closed window -- loud enough to rouse me from typing, but it was the gobble-chirp I associate with hawks going about their routines, not a screech. The hawk hunched over the bent branch. Two small birds hovered, taking aim from opposite branches, colliding into the hawk's back, the hawk's wing. Looking at that distance like flies, they were probably bluejays. I saw a jay hectoring a hawk in my backyard recently. I've seen crows, singly and in pairs, hectoring hawks in flight. For all I can tell, the hawk doesn't mind, but I imagine it's annoying to have little bullies clipping past, snapping at your feathers. Naturally, the smaller birds are acting to protect their habitat and their young.

Eventually, the two pestering birds left the hawk to his business, bending like a walking beam, yanking up on fibrous strands, swallowing. I'm guessing the meal was something with tendons and fur, not a bluejay nestling or another jay. A long digestive sit ensued, with occasional beak to branch to tidy up, savor the last morsels. And a jay returned, playing nah-nah-nah-boo-boo. The hawk reacted, made a false snap in the jay's direction, then flew off to a branch higher up in the canopy, where it sat until taking off. I saw grey wings, an apricot-tinged belly, a dark tail.

That wasn't one of the pale-winged red-tails nesting at the edge of our back yard. But that's the direction this hawk flew when it left its post. I'm guessing a cooper's hawk. Although the internet tells me the red-tailed hawk is the larger of the two, and from my vantage today, I was looking at a large hawk, one that made the bluejay tiny.

Tatendrang - Flash post

I awoke on a Saturday morning to glance at the clock - seven-thirty. I awoke again from the half-sleep of morning and sat myself up around twenty past nine. I'd had "that" dream again, one I hadn't had in a long time. I dream of walking through my (dream-imagined) living space and entering into a room - or an entire wing - I've forgotten exists. As if a part of me is that deeply packed away. My consciousness opens in astonishment, the way it gasps in relief whenever I exit the hills or the woods and look out over unbroken space as wide as I can see. I grabbed my notebook to capture what I could of the dream.

In the notebook, I saw the fruits of drafting a poem near bedtime. Instead of turning on a light to note down a few lines that "showed up" while I lay in bed, I chose instead to write in the dark. Have you ever done that? Experience tells me to write large and to move down the page distinctly to avoid writing atop the previous line. This morning I could see I had mistaken the page. Instead of jotting onto empty paper, I'd written on top of an already written page. Lucky break: the first set of notes was in black ink and the nighttime scribbles are in blue. Note to self: make notes in the dark on my phone?

There's a German term for being ready to get busy: Tatendrang. Literally, deed-drive or action-urge; the energy to move things forward and accomplish something.  (It's the same "Drang" as in "Sturm und Drang.") We say "voller Tatendrang" for that feeling of being all reared up and ready to go. I've got a manuscript to proofread, a trip to prepare, and that poem to write.

I decided to let my energy loose on a blog post first, noting how long it's been since I've done that and wondering if I'm ready to stop, officially. Wouldn't it be interesting to collect the last lines of bloggers who quit? I feared mine (from August 2016) might have been a lame promise like "I'll be back soon." Instead, I ended a recap of how I spent the twelfth anniversary of Simon's death in California with my daughter on this phrase: "We had a nice evening out together."

I could have ended with that.

Flash poem

Where the rainbow is

It isn't where the rainbow is
that matters
it's where you are

because it's your eyes that make
a rainbow
isn't it?

Hear rain rumble the glass rooftop
like scampering hooves
then stop.

Evening sunshine burns hot enough
to trigger auto-blinds. What's the angle?
Where's the rainbow stage?

Follow the shadow line of a tree
it should point the way, but
no rainbow.

Start a poem. Look one more time
there!
Chalky pastels draw an arc

then fade

Being present (flash post)

Keeping to my own rules for a flash post (write it fast, almost no editing), I came home needing to write a little scene. I jotted it down by hand because I had a pot of soup to start, and then I came to my computer to blog. And here's what happens: I start to wonder if I need to break the lines. Is this supposed to be a poem?

Today's result is two poems. The first is a prose poem. The second, a lined poem. Each form, of course, drives different choices. Editing today is a particularly astute process because I've re-read Strunk and White's Elements of Style for an article I'm writing. Still not done, but this is a flash post! Since there are two versions of the "same thing," your are welcome to vote on your favorite!

I.

Walking away from the small town supermarket this evening, past the outdoor fruit display, past the cluster of middle-aged cyclists paused in front of Town Hall, weaving aside for pedestrians, I saw a lady walking toward and past me. She smiled warmly as as she said, "See you soon," into her phone, and I wondered if I'm ever that genuinely pleased. Certainly not on the phone, because I dislike talking on the phone. But ever in my life? Do I inhabit a moment with such generous appreciation? I grasped at my bike helmet to open the strap and rounded the corner toward where I had left my bike. And in the moment of asking do-I-ever a radiant field of magenta burst into view--a flower box plump with petunias hanging from a window of the old Rathaus. Sensory pleasure filled the air like the chimes of shimmering bells.

II.

Walking away this evening
from the small town supermarket
past an outdoor fruit display
side-stepping pedestrians
past a cluster of cyclists

I saw a lady walking toward
and past me who smiled warmly
as as she said, "See you soon,"
into her phone, and I wondered
if I'm ever that genuinely pleased.

Certainly not on the phone
because I dislike talking on the phone
but ever in my life?

Can I feel a moment like that?

My fingers undid my bike helmet strap
I turned a corner
and my eyes filled

with radiant magenta--
an effusion of petunias
hanging from a window
in the old Rathaus

like bells chiming shimmery tones in every
molecule of the air.

The kind of heat (flash post)

We're back in the kind of heat
that bakes the days and leaves
the air trembling even after
the sun has fallen to the west.

Every action, every thought superseded
by little tasks to keep the heat
out--window open, window closed
blinds down, awning out

stumbling around the darkened rooms
working in the computer's glow
with lights off all day. Along
with the heat I have banished

circadian rhythm in a trade for
air that moment by moment
loses the cool we coax inside
in the hours around dawn.

Outside, when I dare, fries my skin. Precious
shade is indispensable also for my car,
which suddenly I love--my one and only
possession that can blow cool air.

More from the Comma Queen (flashier post)

More on yesterday's post about the New Yorker copy editor Mary Norris.

Watch Mary Norris tell her story of working with words on stage at the Moth: http://video.newyorker.com/watch/the-new-yorker-live-an-evening-at-the-moth-mary-norris.

The language I love to talk (flash post)

I like to talk about words: groups of words, poems, sentences, paragraphs, stories, essays, chapters, books. Ask someone in one of my writers groups. I get intensely involved, and I enjoy the deep thought that surrounds seemingly small questions, such as whether to use a comma or not.

Fortunately, I have some company. Last week I read a New Yorker article called Holy Writ: Learning to love the house style by copyeditor Mary Norris. She's followed up this week with a video about commas in compound subjects and compound predicates. I earn money helping people out with that sort of thing. (Shh, don't let too many people know about the new video series.)

Comma Queen: Series Premiere (video)

Another site I came across this week is The Punctuation Guide. What could be more fun than mousing over a semicolon and clicking over to a page devoted to all there is to know?

Wednesday morning, 8:00 am (flash post)

Raspberry sorbet streaks across a moody sky. A slash in the gray glows aquamarine. Beyond the village, day asserts itself after a long December night. Tightly packed buildings block my view, so I walk away from the rising light into the western fields where openness and distance give me sight. I stride down the straight paved path, along fields combed and troughed for next year's potatoes, past soil now grassy with next year's grain. Behind me the sky is molten orange. Ahead of me, clouds wear my faded memory of children's liquid pain reliever, shaken and frothy in a tiny cup: cherry brightening to pink bubblegum then warming to Motrin orange. The clouds furthest from the sun are indeed the reddest. Long waves of warm light arrive first; cool blues and greens balance the palette of day only after the sun moves overhead. Now the cloud that blushed so pink is merely whiter than the grayer ones. As I loop back, the sky over the village is skim milk spilled on Prussian blue, grape Tylenol tracing the shadows.



Further reading:
What Determines Sky's Colors at Sunrise And Sunset?--Science Daily

If you're in the mood for sunset/sunrise photos:
Sunset to sunrise, slide show 7

Windy Sunday afternoon ride (flash post)

I was back on my bike this afternoon, and I took Markus along on a jaunt through the vineyards and fields southeast of Flein. Grapes are a-growing: bushy plants and small, hard-looking fruit. We saw fields of rapeseed (some harvested), corn, wheat, rye, strawberries, and raspberries.

Up along the southern edge of the vineyards, we passed the big red frame, Flein's outdoor "movie theater." The color has faded considerably since we first encountered the frame in 2010. The photo shows Miriam and me with both sets of grandparents. A lot has changed. For one thing, Miriam's several inches taller than me now.

Open Air Cinema of Flein, where we are encouraged
to stop, rest and watch the world go by (October 2010)

Markus and I found the "Ausschank" open. It's a hut out in the fields that serves wine and snacks on Sunday afternoons in the summertime. We stopped for a glass of Sekt and a cheese sandwich and chatted with our across-the-street neighbors. We learned a lot about the history of Flein. They came in 1958 when the population was 3,000. We came in 2010 at 6,500. Now it's 7,000 and growing. (The three of us weren't the only new arrivals.)

On the downhill straightaways toward home, I coasted through the wind with my loose linen top flapping against my back and sides like a fabulous torso massage. More than enough reward for the bramble scrape on the back of my hand and the dead-ends, gravel sections, and pant-inducing uphills.

Now we look with all of Germany toward tonight's action in Brazil. I'm glad (after the USA left the World Cup) to have a decent back-up team to cheer for. We're already drinking more Sekt.

[Sekt is sparkling wine that's made like champagne, but it's illegal to call it champagne because that's a protected name. Our bottle tonight is rosé, from grapes grown around about where we were biking today.]

Signs of maturing (flash post)

I've been watching these pumpkins grow for ten years now. My perception grows more specific with time. The first year, 2004, I would notice things after the fact. Oh, the plant has shot a vine along the fence toward the house. Oh, the leaves are all wilted from the heat. Oh, the blossoms are a lovely shade of orange-yellow. Oh, there's a globe shape with watermelon skin resting on the grass.

Now I peer at the plants the way we watch infants for their every change of expression. Here's what I can see today.

"?" remains the frontrunner by a considerable lead.
The long vine has begun to shift from upward growth and will soon rest
on the dirt. The plant means business once it starts sending out
the curling tendrils that will help it grab on.

"?" in close-up. Thin stalks and tight buds show the lanky male flowers
preparing to bloom later. The female flowers have yet to emerge
out at the end of the growing vine. The first two round-edged leaves
from the sprouting seed have begun to dry and drop off the plant.

2011 getting situated.

2012 the runner-up, size-wise, but it still has those first two rounded leaves.

2004 (a) making progress.

2004 (b) growing roots for sure.

Maturation is on my mind. I see that in my poetry fragment about Simon reaching an imagined maturity. I see it when I think of the cousins Simon's age, leaving high school or entering senior year in the fall, as Simon would have been set to do. With amazement I see that I've repeated a pattern in my teaching life. In Salt Lake City, I began teaching middle school (5th-8th graders) a year after Simon died. I thought the children, being much older than Simon, would not remind me painfully of him. The years went by, and soon I was teaching his own age group. I had a group of 7th grade mentees, all born around 1997, like Simon. Now, I teach college students. Most of the students enter straight from high school. In the fall of 2015, the entering class will be young adults the same age that Simon would be.

Today's look at the pumpkin patch (flash post)

Shaping up the pumpkin patch after restarting the plants. Getting them ready to grow and take over the garden. (Slight reworking of the same post of June 25th.)

Late June, the pumpkin plants are up and clustered
around five yellow markers.

Too many seedlings competing for nutrients and space.

Alas, I have thinned each spot down to one plant
(although the metaphor of weeding out the weakest causes me some pain--
this is, after all, a pumpkin grown in memory of a sick child).

The current forerunner, a seedling growing solo for several weeks now.
I had planted a random seed before the first plants got munched. Markus
replaced it with one marked 2005 from our neighbor Elizabeth's garden.
So it's not truly a "?" anymore. Those were awesome pumpkins she grew.

I'm looking forward to what happens next (and so is Simon-the-Cat).

All pumpkin posts: http://chapterthis.blogspot.de/search/label/pumpkin

Lunch on my own in Karlsruhe (flash post)

I found a hip/mellow café called Feinraum tucked in one of the streets that fans out and away from the main shopping street in downtown Karlsruhe. The city is called the Fächerstadt (fan city) because of its formal 18th century design, which fans the city out from the castle at its center (think yellow-walled palace, not stone fortress). The structure creates unusual angles throughout the city center and can be pretty confusing if you're not used to it.

We used to live here, Markus and I, from 1992-1995, our first three years married. He worked after his MBA as marketing manager at a printing company (mostly old style phone books and packaging for pharmaceuticals). I taught Business English seminars all around Baden-Württemberg through a company based in Stuttgart.

I think most people have heard of Stuttgart (Mercedes, Porsche...). It's the state capital. Karlsruhe was the capital of Baden before the two states were merged, and it remains perhaps the one that got passed over. Württembergers and Badeners couldn't be more different from each other (according to themselves). Once back in the 1990s a client at a bank asked me for the truth--did I get along better with the people like herself from Baden than with those Swabians (the Württembergers)? Just a little unkindly, I told her that if I ever have any trouble, it's because all of them are German! (We changed subject.)

These days, the main reason you hear about Karlsruhe on the news is that the high courts are here, including the Verfassungsgericht (constitutional court), which is like the U.S. Supreme Court.

I'm here today because I came to see my hairstylist--yep, from 20 years ago. Across the street from the café I see an emptied out store. The worn decor features the faded blues, greens, reds and yellows of the toy store I remember being there. I bought some of my favorite kids' cassette tapes there on a visit around 2000. But that's the least of it. The whole town is fabulously torn up for projects involving tunnels and train tracks and who knows what. Every time we come, the place is different and we get lost (Miriam comes regularly, also on her own, to shop at Primark--something they don't have over in Stuttgart...). Today I came by S-Bahn (a region-connecting streetcar). It's a 90-minute trip from downtown Heilbronn, and it's time to start my trip back.

[What's a flash post? It's me writing fast, maybe on my iPad, inspired by something in the moment. No fussing.]

Out through the fields near Flein (flash post)

For a chance to move my legs and breathe and look around me, I got on my bike and rode with Miriam across the fields to Sontheim, the next town over. She was on her way to the gym to work out on the elliptical machine. I looped around from there and followed a no car/no motorcycle sign onto a path that soon became a grassy, unpaved groove.

From there I popped back out onto a familiar asphalt path, where I could curve around the Deinenbach creek, the newly growing fields, the fruit trees dotted here and there, the expanses of yellow rapeseed, the bursts of lilac spearing the sky. I believe it was Goethe’s Farbenlehre (color theory) that dictates proportions for complementary colors: half red : half green; one-third orange : two-thirds blue; one-quarter yellow : three-quarters purple. Things seem to be the other way around at the moment, with yellow everywhere and dots of purple now and then.

It’s the Saturday before Easter, sunny and pleasantly cool. The paths are popular. We each thread our own particular way through the space. Most of us live nearby, with our own particular reasons for being out there. Many walk. With dogs and without. Singly, in pairs, in larger groups. A few march along with Nordic walking sticks. Bicycles. Baby carriages. Scooters. Roller blades. Now and then there’s a car or a tractor crowding the rest of us briefly off the path. They’re only supposed to be there if they have official business. I’m often skeptical.

Overhead, birds (mostly crows) course through the sky carving paths that don’t follow the lines cut through the fields for human traffic. I’ve been lucky enough to see an owl and a heron a time or two picking their way along the fields under the cover of dusk.

Welcome spring! A few weeks ago my legs grew tired, my breathing hard as I pumped my bike up the hills. Today’s ride was gentler, but I felt readier for the rises, for the up and down shifting, for the pleasure of working my way forward on a bike.

Fields deeply furrowed, probably for carrots (photo March 2014).

Short grass-like plants in tidy rows will be wheat or rye
by harvest time (photo May 2013).

Looking toward Flein and grocery discounter Lidl with the red roof
from the Talheim side (photo May 2013).

Strawberry fields getting ready
(photo May 2013, but this year's plants are close).

In a corner bakery (flash post)

I sit on a too low stool, or it might just be the table is too high. Two saleswomen serve the customers who walk in with their questions and intentions to shop quickly. I take bites of my Apfel-Steusel (poised favorably close to my mouth, due to the table) and swigs of a cappuccino (the everyday bakery variety, not the broad cup and opulent foam of the fancy coffee places).

A woman enters wearing reinforced work pants and paint-spattered shoes. It's 3:30 pm, but she looks done with her workday. Affectless. She buys a loaf that's wound in paper and takes her leave. The bakery saleslady reaches behind her to remove the price sign for that type of bread. Sold out for today.

In the adjoining shop there's a butcher, and voices bounce off the shiny stone floor. I see a dad and a young boy, who's riding a wooden rocking horse. Now they're at the counter. The saleswoman has given the boy a slice of Lyoner (really fine-grained baloney) to munch on; they always do. The boy returns to the rocking horse, mussy haired and staring quietly out the window while the dad shops.

"Is that one a kilo?" asks the next man in the bakery. "And what about the rye? A kilo?" He settled on the rye, not sliced, and left.

More paint-spattered folks in for coffee to go. The machine hums and presses out the drinks. The ladies mop the floor during a lull. Suddenly we're all quiet. Deeply colored Easter eggs fill a glass bowl. The remaining loaves get rearranged. Another workman grabs cold drinks. Tschüss, auf Wiedersehen, we all say when someone leaves.