a country weekend, arrival

My arrivals at our country house follow a pattern. Day or night I first check on the waterfall. I hear it as soon as I get out of the car, framing why I love the Catskills, wilderness and wildness set among rolling hills and dairy farms. The waterfall is fed by snowmelt and rain, so by the end of summer slows to a trickle, but big rains last week had it roaring.

Then I unpack the car, go in the house, open the windows, 

and if it's daytime go back outside. 

I arrived Friday late afternoon so had plenty of time to explore.

I walked to the frog pond to make sure the frogs were there.

So many species have become extinct in recent years that I worry, 

but there were tadpoles and frogs in every stage.

They leap away at any movement of my shadow.

Next I investigated the wildflowers.

Forget me nots, tiny and delicate,

that perfect blue with the yellow center, takes my breath away.

Everywhere I looked there were layers of nature.

I picked some flowers and ferns

and went into the house to put them in water.

I chose a couple of my nature books 

and took them, along with ice water, raspberries

and Denise Parsons' (of Chez Danisse) new book 

After the Sour Lemon Moon, and went back outside to read.

"The train pulls slowly to a stop. I tug my suitcase down from the rack above and exit into the blue hour. It is quiet. I can hear myself breathe."

                                                                               from,  After the Sour Lemon Moon

 Yes, I can hear myself breathe.

Catskill frog pond

The old frog pond was little more than a ditch, dug when the driveway was built. After a flood several years ago, we had to rebuild a large section of the driveway, and where earth and rocks were taken for that purpose, a new pond formed, organically.

We weren't aware that it was happening, but frogs and dragonflies and fireflies found it, and flowers grew around it.

 A new ecosystem grew.

This week, among the abundance of daisies I found a lone foxglove.

The water in the nearby brook runs clear, but the frog pond relies on rain, and is filled with strange clumps of matter in various stages of growth and decay--good camouflage for a frog resting on a stick.

I wrote a bit about frogs and ecology here. I am always relieved when I walk to the pond, and find that the frogs are still there.

Catskill summer

The frogs twang like out of tune guitars, and everything is green. Our house is full, Bob made Sangria with lots of fruit, the boys cooked, the day was hot, the night is chilly. After dark I took a flashlight outside and read--it smells like water and forest, and the sound of the waterfall is soothing as ocean waves. Luke took a night walk and saw a beaver, and I thought about finding a sleeping bag and staying the night under the stars.