Harbor Seals

ELKHORN SLOUGH--

Close to the waterline we glide,
Lazy paddles pushing.
Curious heads emerge, dripping,
With soulful dogs' eyes, wise,
And whiskered muzzles--
Again submerged.

If I am watching birds,
Why am I so delighted
By what lies beneath?
Especially you who roll
Your spotted streamlined
Sausage body
Underneath my seat,
Suspended there,
So I'm afraid to dip my oar,
Wondering whether to touch you,
If you'll anoint my vessel with holy water.

Others of your kin raise their tails
And heads into the air
For warmth--relaxed,
U-shaped contortionists
In the shallow flats.

This rainbow at last reminds us just of you.

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost...

...but the Wandering Naturalist has lost her wanderlust, at least for now. It's been a long unblogged stretch of time, and I must at last admit that no blogging looms on the horizon. For those who wish to contact her-who-used-to-blog, e-mail me at SheSwee@gmail.com.
WN Out.

Seagulls on the Mountainside

Insert original poem here. Ahem...

SEAGULLS ON THE MOUNTAINSIDE
Some things travel well to a scene--
Hence the tomato, Italian cuisine.
Other things transfer well not at all
Philippine snake proved Guam's downfall.

I, when I travel, plan "When in Rome,"
But often find pref'rences carried from home.
To adapt to a habitat, unknown clime
Seems gobs more complex than English rhyme.

The customs I treasure in my native land
Jar, out of place, in the desert sand.
It's just no use--two worlds collide,
Like seagulls on the mountainside.

Lyrics to that Leeann Womack song

...because I really like it, and I wish these things for you:

"I Hope You Dance" from Leeann Womack's CD of the same title, by Mark D. Sanders and Tia Sillers:

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance
I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin' might mean takin' chances but they're worth takin'
Lovin' might be a mistake but it's worth makin'
Don't let some hell bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to sellin' out reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance... I hope you dance
I hope you dance... I hope you dance

(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along. Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone.)

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

Dance... I hope you dance
I hope you dance... I hope you dance
I hope you dance... I hope you dance

(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along. Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone.)

Copyright 2000 MCA Music Publishing

Arboreal Love

This one is an ode to redwoods, tall and old and beloved. Their heartwood is red, water- and pest-resistant, even fire-resistant. One can walk into a blackened hollow of a trunk, yet the tree still lives.

Too bad they are not people-resistant. Tannins can't stop chainsaws. The ability to regenerate a circle of clones about your trunk can't compete with the monetary benefits of clear-cutting for beautiful hot tubs.

Spotted owls? Banana slugs? Revered forest friends go slighted in civilized society. And who is moved to tears anymore when standing beneath the aged giants? Who holds the fog and light streaming through the trees precious anymore?

All we indoor people have poor circulation--we are cut off from our life-blood, our Mother Earth, our American heritage--now that we no longer listen to the trees.

The Secret Life of Birds

I should like to know the secret life of birds. There's a fascinating book called The Secret Life of Bees and Richard Attenborough has drawn our attention to many hitherto unknown facets of avian life in his Life of Birds documentary series. But I still wonder.

There were four seagull chicks getting fed by the same adult in one area of Alcatraz. So what, say you? Well, Western Gulls lay three eggs in each nest. This seems incontrovertible. And other gulls' nestlings are driven away or killed, as a general rule. But one of the four chicks huddled by itself when feeding time was over, so I fancy it an adopted orphan. Perhaps only other adults are territorial rivals. Josh, the biologist intern, said he saw one other group of four and thinks a similar thing occurred, for one was much bigger than the other three. If only someone had time to get to the bottom of this... Anyone want to sponsor me to uncover the secret life of birds?

--Postscript: Several days later, we discovered a pair of gulls feeding six chicks, quite near a public path. The other three had probably fallen from a nest on the cliff above. The adults seem a grouchy couple, aggressive toward human passersby. No wonder--they're super parents!

Confessions of a Tour Guide

Today I hid out in an Alcatraz tunnel. People overwhelmed me, so I strode with purpose beyond a barricade and looked out at the bay alone through dusty, rusty windows in a big, empty building. Then I stopped in the gunnite-lined tunnel and stooped down to watch a big fat banana slug with a blob of dirt at the end of his tail (or should I say "his and her"?--they're hermaphrodites). I really just didn't want to come out and face what Ranger Jose calls "the teething masses." I watched its tentacles grow longer and shorter, its mouth parts explore the gravelly ground, the slow curve of its slime trail.

At last I came out, but even then I was hiding out. I kept looking beyond the visitors at wildlife. The three baby ravens have learned to fly and were soaring about the island with quavery croaks. Three fuzzy gull chicks slept in a ball like a big clump of lint, while mom slept nearby, head tucked under wing in midafternoon. The cormorant colony looked busy with long undulating necks and beaks, as birds dove into the water, flew back to the cliffs, tended dependent young or brooded slower nests.

I do like people, really, but sometimes visitors at play tire me out more than wildlife quietly getting down to business.