Black -chinned Hummingbird


One of the joyous aspects of coming to the desert is that I know that I will be seeing Black –chinned hummingbirds again. This small emerald green-backed hummingbird of the west with no brilliant colors on his throat except a thin strip of iridescent purple bordering his black chin has to be one of my favorites. Because it is so difficult to see the rich deep purple band on the males I am always on the look out for it. I have a feeder just outside my east window and in the morning when the light is right I can usually glimpse a brilliant flash of deep purple.

This year the hummingbirds arrived in Abiquiu during the middle of April from Mexico, (or the Gulf coast) just a few days too early because we had a cold spell with temperatures in the low twenties, and one morning a blanket of snow covered the desert floor.

My neighbor found a dead male Black chinned hummingbird on his feeder early that winter morning. As soon as I heard this news I requested that the bird be brought to me, because I knew that hummingbirds have developed an ability to survive cold temperatures by drastically lowering their heartbeats and going into a state of torpor. Unfortunately this bird was dead having already been placed in a freezer.

Frequently, these birds can be revived if held in the palm of one’s hand; once movement is detected it is possible to feed them sugar water with an eye dropper by forcing open the birds’ beak and dribbling drops into the side of the hummingbird’s mouth. Be very careful if you do decide to do this because hummingbirds, like all birds, run the risk of choking. The fluid can kill them. Afterwards the bird can be placed in a small softly lined box to recover completely and then set free.

It is a good idea to put hummingbird feeders out about a week before the first Ruby  throated and Black –chinned hummingbirds arrive because there are so few natural sources for food available. Here in Abiquiu, I will be placing a feeder out by the beginning of the second week in April. Most folks are aware that hummingbird populations have been stabilized because so many people love to feed them.

These birds are strictly migratory wintering in Mexico or along the Gulf coast.

Female Black- chinned hummingbirds are larger than males and have brilliant green backs and pale whitish gray throats. Most females arrive later than the males.

Courtship displays begin soon afterwards with the males sky-diving around the females, flashing their neon throats, or hovering in front of their potential mates and flying back and forth in front of them. These behaviors are always accompanied by whirring sounds.

Hummingbird nests are extraordinary structures that are built by the females. They are shaped like tiny cups and made of grasses, plant fibers, spider webs, and lined with plant down. The outside of the nest is camouflaged with lichens, dead leaves or other debris. The female lays two tiny eggs that are incubated by her for two weeks. She feeds the nestlings by sticking her bill into their mouths and regurgitating tiny insects, nectar, and sugar water. The nestlings fledge at three weeks. The female has two broods a year.

Watching a Black- chinned hummingbird feed in natural surroundings is fun. To catch small insects the hummers may grab them in mid –air and sometimes take them from spider webs!

Black – chinned hummingbirds can be found in semi – arid country, river groves, suburbs, mountains and hills throughout the west. Unfortunately they are at risk because of climate change, so lets appreciate them while we still have them.


This will be my last entry before returning to Maine. I will be leaving on the Summer Solstice and be making a 4 -5 day trip. Just this month a hummingbird sat under the Fire Moon as I took the picture. It seems fitting that my last article would be about these wondrous little birds that I love so much….

Dancing for the Dakota Access Pipeline



Last week we attended dances at Ohkay Owingeh, formally known as the Pueblo of Santa Clara. These Tewa speaking peoples are located on the Rio Grande River, nestled in the hills on tribal owned land in Northern New Mexico.


Because it is the time of the year that most dances are held to encourage the crops to grow the first dance we witnessed, not surprisingly, was a Basket dance. The women dancers were dressed in bright shawls of every conceivable color and carried baskets with ribbons, symbolizing the containers for the harvest to come. All wore moccasins. Curiously, some women had what looked like three dimensional moons with rays attached to their backs. These sculptures were quite original and certainly spectacular and once again the corn maiden symbol, the round red dot, adorned the cheek of each woman. Very small girls were also dressed in traditional regalia. Drumming accompanied the dance and corn pollen was dusted on the earth before the dance began.


Many pounding drums alerted us to the next dance that immediately followed the first. Drummers and singers entered the plaza from the kiva (the best drummers I have heard so far). The lead dancer was dressed in a war bonnet made of brilliant orange feathers, His arms were covered in purple clay and he had wings made of feathers, bells, scarlet knee bands. He didn’t dance he flew, his feet barely touching the ground. I was mesmerized and for a while couldn’t pay attention anything but the sound of the drumming and this dancer’s whirling body and footwork. He became the dance. Gradually the other dancers entered my awareness, all men with bodies covered in ochre, red, and gray clay.


The whole tone of this dance was different. Angry. War cries. Yells. I could feel a fiery intensity that I have never experienced at any of the former dances. I didn’t understand. Some men wore buffalo horn headdresses and other men wore other fantastic war bonnets along with bells, kilts, red ties on their legs. The drumming pulled me into the earth with its awe – inspiring beat.


Then I saw the lead dancer wearing an apron with the letters DAPL – the Dakota Access Pipeline – and I finally understood what my body was experiencing. This dance was being held to support all Indigenous peoples in their fight for their brothers and sisters, the right to reclaim their lands. They were dancing for clean waters for all Indigenous peoples, all people, and for the Earth. I wept.


Recently the Trump administration failed to follow proper environmental procedures when it granted approval for the Dakota Access Pipeline according to the Federal Judge’s ruling. This action does not stop the oil from flowing but The People took this ruling as a sign of hope because it opens the door to the possibility that this outrageous law might be rescinded.


Currently the pipeline can carry 520,000 barrels of oil daily. It is sobering to know that thousands of gallons of oil have already been spilled in dozens of industrial accidents over the past two years. In early April the DAPL leaked oil before it was fully operational.


I came away from the dance with a sense of renewed hope and a grateful heart. I have been experiencing so much grief and anger towards this most hostile government that is destroying all hope for planetary survival. Being privileged to witness this active prayer dance for life helped me deal with my own ongoing rage and sense of powerlessness.


Thank you People of Ohkay Owingeh for reminding me that I am not alone. My heart goes with you…

A Day in the Forest



A couple of days ago my friend Iren took me up to Santa Barbara to the San Pedro wilderness. There were so many tall stately conifers – pine, spruce, too many evergreens to mention. Walking through the pale sage gray trunks of the tall aspen forest with their flat edged rustling leaves was only marred by the people that seemed to be obsessed by carving their names into these beautiful smooth ridged trees (which are members of the poplar family as are cottonwoods) creating a vulnerability for disease and untimely death for each thoughtlessly wounded tree. Amber resin weeps tree tears. Whole mountains were covered with every shade of green. White stone. A few peaks with snow could still be seen in the distance. Astonishing tall craggy cliffs and narrow gorges with clear streams running through the low places kept Iren and I close to the rushing water that tumbled over smooth stone.


“Water Women” love the lowlands, though Iren is also “Mountain Woman” scaling peaks (with ease) that make me cringe!


Iren says this place reminds her of Switzerland, her original homeland. She was sure she smelled mushrooms! I thought of Maine. I was entranced by all the lovely woodland flowers, the bright red wild columbine, delicate lavender bell shaped flowers of the clematis vines, bluebells, violets both white and deep purple, solomon’s seal, valerian, red clover, alpine lupine, water hemlock – I could go on and on here.


The medicine woman in me was astonished/astounded by the plethora of natural remedies this forest had to offer. I was delighted to have found such an abundant source for so many of the tinctures/creams I make up and use.


Spongy green sphagnum moss and a number of gray green and orange lichens covered some granite rocks. A cacophony of birds sang from the tops of trees and a hummingbird joined us for lunch at the water’s edge.

Black bear sign was in evidence. Fallen logs that housed millions of ants and grubs were raked into shreds. Insects make up most of the Black bears’ omnivore diet in the spring, along with new grass and sedges, all of which were in abundance here (although Black bears are considered omnivores 93 – 95 percent of their diet is made up of sedges, tubers, insects and berries). Some aspen were bent over in that peculiar angle that Black bears use when they are marking territory for mating season in the late spring/early summer. I decided that most of the 3000 bears of New Mexico must be hiding out in this forest, the trees of which were allowed to sprout, grow, decay and die naturally returning to the earth – from death to life – the forest, (left to her own devices), is in a continuous state of becoming.


Iren put her hand in the pebble strewn rushing water and quickly withdrew it. This mountain stream was too cold for her to take a quick dip!


When we returned to the car I felt so happy, so satisfied, so grateful to Iren. Thanks to my friend, I spent another wondrous day in yet another part of New Mexico, a state that has stolen my heart

Doves and More Doves

IMG_2852.JPGEurasian Collared Doves


Lily B came to me almost 25 years ago. I had always wanted a bird but my ambivalence about caging had prevented me from acquiring an avian companion. My personal bias underwent a radical change when I read that African collared doves were imported into this country to parent exotic birds because they were such good parents, and after they grew too old they were set free to fend for themselves. A few small flocks survived this harsh treatment. The fact that they were considered to be “trash birds” distressed me deeply and when I discovered it was possible to acquire one of these doves for $5.00, I ordered one.


Lily B is a cream colored dove with an unusual pale lavender tint to his plump body. With penetrating red eyes and a throaty triple coo, Lily loves to sun bathe in the early morning sun, and is keenly interesting in cooking. He spends a fair amount of time in the kitchen, and prefers Havarti cheese as his daily snack. He roosts in hanging baskets.


When I came to Abiquiu Lily accompanied me (he has never been caged) and his melodious singing brought a close relative of his, the Eurasian Collared dove, to our bird feeding station.


The two are almost impossible to distinguish unless one listens carefully to their calls. African collared doves have a deep throated song, while Eurasian doves have a similar triple coo that lacks the rich tone. African collared doves can also occasionally be spotted in this area but sightings are quite rare, and it is usually the Eurasian collared doves that we see this time of year in pairs.


Like Lily, the Eurasian doves have buff colored, robust bodies, startling red eyes that look black from a distance, red legs, and a black ring that circles their necks in a horseshow shape leaving a gap at the throat. If you think that you have spotted an African collared dove listen to the call. If the triple coo is soft it is a Eurasian collared dove and if it is deep and resonant then you are listening to an African collared dove.


The Eurasian dove is native to Asia and was introduced into North America in the 1980’s. Presently this bird is found throughout the U.S. except (oddly) in the northeast. They forage on the ground for seeds and insects, and sometimes eat berries. Collared doves typically breed close to human habitation wherever food resources are abundant and there are trees for nesting. The males have a harsh two syllable territorial warning call. Both males and females sing and the female adopts the mating song of her mate. The male chooses the nesting area, the female decides upon the exact site. The male builds the nest. The female lays two white eggs in the casual stick – laden structure, and both parents sit on the eggs. Fledglings become independent within a month. Both parents feed the young regurgitated pigeon milk. Four to six broods a year are common in southern areas.


I have at least half a dozen pairs living here in the cottonwoods along the river and early in the morning there is a cacophony of musical coo- COO –coos and fluttering of wings as the birds land on the ground both inside and outside my house!

Next Month I Will Be Gone



Next Month I will be Gone


I called her the Fire Moon

rising burnt orange

over cottonwoods

whose heart shaped leaves

rustled in  harmony.


Next month I will be gone.


Subdued, I watched

the moon in silence,

feeling my body

pulling me earthward

heaving with sorrow.


Next month I will be gone.


I watched her

become a luminous white pearl

As she climbed

high in the sky.

I bow to her will:

The cycles of change.


Next month I will be gone.


A single hummingbird

landed on a tree branch

under our white moon blossom

marking the moment.


Next month I will be gone.

Serpents Who Slip Through Desert Sands



Yesterday I went with a friend to the Wildlife Center to attend a safe snake releasing presentation. In the southwest pit vipers/venomous snakes are routinely slaughtered whenever they are encountered. Many people have an irrational fear of snakes that drives snake extinction, even when it’s totally unnecessary.

The best part of the program for me was having the opportunity to learn how to safely pick up a rattlesnake with a snake-stick made with a simple metal hook at one end that easily slips under the upper third of the snake’s body. After completing the first step, lifting the snake off the ground and depositing it in an enclosure is a relatively simple procedure, probably because the snake is surprised to be airborne. I noted that even when the rattlesnakes were agitated, once off the ground they calmed down. The trick of course is to hook the snake in question without being bitten! It is important to wear high boots and to cover your legs with clothing that is heavy enough to repel a strike. But if the snake is hooked properly it won’t bite. I personally would like to practice this maneuver with a garter or gopher snake (like the one I saw this morning) before attempting to move a rattlesnake, but after my experience I feel reasonably confident that I could perfect this technique in time, and I like knowing that I might be able to save a snake from an unnecessary death.

Snakes are beneficial because they kill rodents that carry disease. Without the help of snakes we would be overrun by mice, rats etc. They also consume noxious insects and scorpions.

It is so important to remember that snakes are not remotely interested in making contact with humans. They are easily frightened by our presence, and of course, if a snake is cornered it will coil up, rattle its tail as a warning and prepare to strike in self –defense. We humans would do exactly the same thing if the situation were reversed.

Here in New Mexico we have a number of poisonous snakes including Diamondbacks, Western, and Mojave rattlesnakes. At this presentation I was amazed at the variations in color for all snakes (venomous or not) that reside in this area.


Above: diamondback rattlesnake

A perfect example is the Coach – whip snake that happens to be my favorite local serpent. He is fast! And he has a velvet snakeskin that can be pink, red, or a magnificent burnt copper color and sometimes he is sometimes striped. All snakes feel like smooth velvet in when touched.


Above: My favorite local serpent, the Coach -whip. Look at his beautiful eye!

Once again, I was reminded that what I needed to focus on for identification was not the variable patterns but the triangular head and the presence of a rattle.

I disagreed with the presenter on two points.

One was that snakes can’t hear. It is true that snakes don’t have ears but they are keenly aware of vibrations of any kind and react to them. Everything in nature is made up of vibrations that most of us cannot hear. Snakes do react to our voices because they create vibrations.

The second point that upset me was the presenter’s remark that snakes have poor eyesight. In my experience this simply isn’t true. It may be that snakes can’t see objects at a great distance but paying close attention to a snake’s behavior will dissolve the myth of poor eyesight. I recently had a very close encounter with a Coach -whip who was hanging upside down in a tangle of willows. I made eye contact with this animal repeatedly who watched me intently as he slipped from one twig onto another while I spoke quietly to him. It seemed to me that he was interested in looking at me from different perspectives!

If you do not want to have snakes in your yard, do not leave birdseed on the ground for mice. Remove all water sources, and keep the area around your house free of rocks or bushes under which a snake might hide.

In closing I would like to reiterate that all snakes simply want to live out their lives in peace. Snakes are not out to get us. They are benevolent creatures that keep rodents in check. Let us create space in our lives to allow them to survive.

Photos (except Coach -whip) Jeff Beeman

White Lily



An oriental lily

wafts sweet scent

through thin air.

Speaking clearly

her spicy perfume


my attention,


the white haze

of my grief.


White, the color

of death –

a dying flower


paper thin,


her edges shrivel.

Only an emerald

pistil still

stands tall.

Brown pollen

Drifts aimlessly,

stains the luminous

pearl moon flower

that once was.




Working Notes:

I was given a bouquet of these most beautiful flowers a couple of days ago.

That same morning I dreamed that hope was dead.

The Fire moon was full this morning.

I am in mourning – for I must let go of a vision I held, perhaps, too close to my heart.

Grief has no boundaries, it swallows one whole.

I have disappeared down a rabbit hole

in the void of dark space.


Postscript 2

The male parts of a flower are called stamens and they usually surround the female pistil that contains an ovary at its base. The pollen from the stamens is carried by the wind and sticks to the sticky top of the pistil fertilizing the flower as it’s dying.

It interests me that the female parts of the flower dies last.

Blessing of the Fields


Above: a small woven Indian basket with Blue corn kernels and an inlaid scallop shell similar to the pendants worn by the dancers. On the left there is a small “Dancing Bear” (Zuni) fetish belonging to the author.

Yesterday I attended a Corn Dance at Tesuque (pronounced Ta –sooki) Pueblo, one that has at its focus, the Blessing of the Fields. It’s the first week in June, the waxing moon will be full in a few days, Venus rises in the morning, and the Summer Solstice is almost upon us, all auspicious signs of the intensifying heat from the sun star that is laying his fiery blanket over the earth urging the crops to grow.

The brilliant morning sun felt good as we stood in the plaza at Tesuque waiting for the dancers to appear from out of the Kiva. Many of the adobes that faced the plaza had recently been re done. There was only one set of buildings left with crumbling adobe, gray with age, and one of the friendly tribal members remarked that it wouldn’t be too long before those too would be rebuilt. Once again I found myself grateful for the casinos that funded the upkeep of these Tewa speaking pueblos. The Pueblo of Tesuque was set among the Juniper strewn hills, with peripheral houses in good repair, all quite neat in appearance. The famed Camel Rock was on tribal land.

I noted with pleasure the alcove over which the heads of the animals looked out on the plaza. The elk with his huge rack of antlers was placed in the center; he was flanked by an antlered mule deer and antlered antelope on each side. Each had been decorated with inlaid turquoise and coral shell necklaces; obviously these animals held the place of honor weaving the blue summer people (squash blossom) and white winter people (turquoise) into one seamless whole. Inside, colorful handmade blankets and intricately designed reed baskets covered the back wall. A small altar stood in the center. Outside, on either side of the adobe stood two fresh well staked cottonwood saplings, the first deciduous trees I had ever seen at a dance. I wondered if the cottonwoods signaled the coming of summer since bits of cotton- like fluff were flying through the air around the plaza with cottonwood seeds attached to their wind pollinating parachutes. Next to this building stood the church refurbished in 2006, I heard someone say.

Inside the small but immaculate church, Mary, Queen of Heaven, although not appearing in the central altar but positioned to the right was much larger than the figure of Jesus on the cross. She had many votive candles lit in her honor. I lit a votive candle for Guadalupe. Together, the two buildings married folk Catholicism to the ancient Puebloan traditions with Mary being honored in one, and sacred animals and the handiwork of the People in the other.

It never ceases to amaze me how I am affected by the sound of the drum as the chanters begin their slow meticulous walk to the plaza from the Kiva. I think my heart actually slows down to synchronize with the beating drum because I feel incredibly alert, but my mind becomes still. All the colors of the rainbow are visible in the flowing ribbons attached to the dress shirts the men wear. After the chanters gather in the plaza, the rest of the dancers appear. Many if not most are adorned with brilliant parrot or other exotic feathers bunched together in a cluster on top of each dancer’s head. This is a relatively small pueblo and yet there were about 200 dancers.

The women wear tablitas, large headdresses, and many are decorated by cloud formations to encourage the rain, water of all life, to fall. Most of the women are barefooted, even though the plaza is full of stones that get stuck in their feet during the dance (the women are barefoot because they are believed to live closer to the earth and hence are better able to help the corn grow). The women are all dressed in a single shouldered black dress with colorful sashes at their waists, and some dresses looked hand embroidered. The women wearing tablitas had a single red spot on each cheek denoting the purity of the “maiden” aspect of corn. All the women carry evergreens (representing the forest/wilderness) in each hand and the same kind of sprigs are attached to the armbands of each male dancer. Each male also wore a fox skin with tail attached to the back of his kilt. Many of the male and female dancers including children wore necklaces of inlaid turquoise and jet beaded with coral. I wondered what the significance could be since the exact same jewelry adorned the elk, deer, and antelope. The combined sounds of voices, the gourd rattles held by men with diagonal rows of tinkling shells on their bare clay covered chests, the belt of large silver bells clanking at their waists, and the deep resonant drum pulled me into a different kind of time, a place where the present is all there is.

Although the songs were different than the ones I had heard at Santa Domingo at the Green Corn Dance, the basic steps of the were much the same, with men and women facing each other while dancing and then exchanging places in the two lines and finally moving in one long line as they gathered to honor the next direction, four in all. There were many small children that also danced and they too wore identical regalia. These Indian children with their dark pools for eyes are enduring. Whenever one tired, a caring adult was in instant attendance helping the youngster in any way that was required. Next to us an Indian woman gave her children corn pollen, which I knew would be sprinkled over the earthen floor of the plaza in a gesture of reverence at the end of all the dances. Occasionally a dog appeared briefly and many old people were present as part of a deeply appreciative Native audience, many of whom kept time with the drum. There were few Anglos present.

When this very long set ended, the chanters and dancers returned to the Kiva and the women scurried around bringing food into the different houses where a feast would be held for all who had been invited, before the next set began. By now the sun was blistering hot and heavy clouds hovered over the horizon. Rumbling thunder could be heard in the distance. Part of me wondered if the thunder was answering the dancing prayers of the Tewa, who were blessing the newly planted corn but also dancing for rain.


The Bosque


The Bosque


Young Cottonwoods

This morning I put on my boots to walk down to the Bosque where the Cottonwoods with their fluttering heart shaped leaves that rustle in the slightest breeze tower over the Russian olives, wolfberry, and gray-green willows. As I open the rusty gate, tufts of white cotton drift down around me carried by a faint breeze because the cottonwood is seeding the moist ground. Here, at least, in this small sanctuary, the trees will regenerate and these elders are already being followed by strong young saplings.

In this magical mystical ephemeral landscape the river’s song is infused with those of a multitude of nesting birds. The Red-winged black birds and Bullock’s orioles are nesting in the giant cottonwood above me and both males announce my presence with warning calls. It’s hard to believe that this magnificent tree is probably only a hundred years old.

Hummingbirds chirp and tweet, well hidden in the tall willow – strewn thickets. As I close the gate I glimpse orange day lilies opening on one side of the path and a clump of Japanese iris blooming with their feet under water almost opposite but nearly hidden in a tangle of vines. The delicate iris are tall and thin with sword-like leaves; the lovely flowers shine like the sun – a golden yellow – some repeat a tricolored pattern with three etched sunbursts inked in pale brown on the tops of the outer three petals. The wide swampy path is partly under water, and I step carefully around ancient horsetails, one of the earth’s first plants, scanning for toad eggs. A little wooden bridge takes me over a small clear stream that feeds into the churning river. The emerald green grasses sway as I pass by, each bending with ripening seed.


When I reach higher ground I see the first wild roses, single blossoms, pale and deep pink they open under the sun dappled shade. I marvel that these same small roses also grow almost wild at my home in Maine. Originally I planted one small bush and now these lovely fragrant roses have sprung up everywhere in my own riparian woodlands.

The cat tail marsh


For a short time the path is straight and then abruptly turns right. I stand on the wooden bridge that goes nowhere that I can discern and gaze out at the beautiful marsh with its papery wheat colored remnants of last year’s cattails and lovely gray Russian olives in various stages of growth that provide such a lovely contrast to wheat and verdant green. Oh, the Japanese iris are all in bloom at my feet on both side of the wooden board. A hummingbird startles me, hovering above a silky cattail tuft, capturing some of the soft material in her beak and then disappearing in a flash into a tangle of wild clematis.


Japanese Iris


Retracing my steps from the board back to the path I am led to yet another part of the swamp, one that allows me to cross the bog because carefully placed stones have been placed there. I walk over the damp places just above the waterline. More swamp iris herald the coming summer season clothed as they are in sun gold. Once I pass the cattails I find myself knee deep in emerald green. More wild roses are opening and hummingbirds and thirsty bumbles sip sweet nectar. The Bosque is bursting with the sound of crickets, and the turbulent waters of the river are just beyond to the left.

Arizona Cypress


I am stopped in my tracks by the smooth skinned serpent draped gracefully around a clump of willows. The snake watches me intently with one glittering orange eye, while listening to my softly spoken words. “I will not hurt you,” I say as I pass by this magnificent silky skinned copper colored snake – a red racer – people call them. (On my return the snake is still watching me from upside down – his tail and lower body are coiled around the upper willow tips and his head is hidden below in the lower branches!) Who is going to become his lunch I wonder.

Red Racer



I spy a small oak tree, ringed with stones that are chosen with care. When I come to the wooden sign it too stops me in my tracks because I am not expecting it! The path I have been on is Wildhaus and to continue on San Diego road is where I am headed; the sign points straight ahead. “Home” a third sign gestures to the right with a wooden finger. I choose not to explore this latter pathway; I don’t want to intrude. I linger here for a few moments thinking about the woman who cares so deeply for this natural landscape that together they have become co- creators.

Her gentle touch is evident in the small fruit tree she has staked and ringed with wire, the Arizona cypress and Junipers, the ringed stones, the almost wild flowers, the clearing of this path (which I know from personal experience) takes a huge amount of time and effort. Love seeps through this Bosque, a holy presence that is palpable. Silently, I thank my friend for this priceless gift, before moving on.

The ground is higher now and opens onto a sandy plain of sorts; in the distance a huge clump of Apache Tears stands out, a massive white cluster of primrose blossoms hugs the ground and bright yellow salsify stalks are blushing as they are being pollinated by bees. A massive rock pile captures my attention, and I pick up a few to examine them more closely.

The river is visible now; it’s turbulent coffee colored waters make the most soothing background music of water rumbling over stone. I notice a couple of old beaver sticks pointed at one end. Suddenly, a Great Blue heron is flying overhead, his massive wings moving in slow syncopated rhythm –another ancient relic from the deep past.


The River

When I come to the wire fence that defines the edge of this property, I happily retrace my steps allowing the power of the Bosque to flood my senses once again. Each time I come here, I leave with a feeling of renewal, knowing that there are some natural places that are cared for as deeply by others as they are by me. To my mind, places like the Bosque speak to Nature’s Grace incarnating in ordinary time.