Asakiyume mita

We have some sunny days, and I finished the job I was working on, so I drew a song sparrow. The song sparrow is found throughout most of North America, "continuous from the Aleutians to the eastern United States," says Cornell Ornithology. They're small everywhere bird with a lovely song. Both their song and their plumage varies across the continent.







Scientific name "Melospiza melodia." You can hear samples of their songs here. (The ones around here sound most like the fourth recording down.)

I wrote a microfiction about Icarus the other day:

Sent out to gather feathers for his father's project, Icarus only picked up ones that birds had shed--he never harmed a single bird. And he learned the birds the feathers came from: osprey, gull, raven, jay, starling.

Later, when he flew too close to the sun and the wax melted, when the feathers were coming out one by one, when he was falling, the birds remembered his careful ways and came to rescue him, in flocks and bands and murmurations.

I also tried a pawpaw the other day, following fast on the heels of sovay. It was delicious! It reminded me a little of an Amazonian fruit I had, caímo-the same texture, the same big seeds. But the pawpaw's flavor and scent was all its own. Once upon a time I wanted to grow a pawpaw, but gave up the idea because my yard is small and already has as many trees as I wanted in it. But now I'm rethinking that. I've saved the seeds. The internet tells me they need to chill out in the fridge for 80–120 days, so I have washed them, wrapped them in a wet paper towel, placed them in a plastic baggie, and put them in the fridge. The last time I tried something like this was in 2006, when I tried growing Khazak apples. I ended up with two viable plants that made it past the one-year mark, but then something ate them. Ah, life.

Let's see how I go with pawpaws.

amaebi has been posting extremely entertaining excerpts from Garden Birds of Britain and North-West Europe, by Dominic Couzens and Carl Bovis--fun in the way the descriptions of the various birds makes you think about people (but at the same time is very illuminating about the birds).

It got me thinking about the brown-headed cowbird. I spent a pleasant afternoon with a female brown-headed cowbird a few years back. She was hunting around in the grass for seeds and insects, and I was mowing the grass, but I stopped, because she was paying so very little attention to my advances. So I sat down very close and watched her, and she was fine with that. She had a pretty face (here's someone else's photo).

( cowbirds are nest parasites )

I could comment on the dangers of anthropomorphism, but I mean, **I'm** anthropomorphizing here, myself, so that would be kind of hypocritical. And I think some amount of anthropomorphism is inevitable, and I feel like it's where empathy starts (and/but also judgmental thoughts). And history is full of instances where the scientific community tells us not to anthropomorphize about, say, animal grief, and then some decades later has to eat their words.

¹ Ronald L. Mumme and Claire Lignac, "Living with Cowbird Nest Parasitism--and Thriving," American Ornithological Society, November 30, 2022.

rachelmanija's great review of Goddess of Yesterday (by Caroline Cooney) made me want to read it too--I did, and I enjoyed it very much. It really truly felt like the story was being told to me by a young girl from Trojan War times. I liked Anaxanadra very much, liked how observant she was, how she learned quickly and worked for her own survival, and that she took a liking to--and then felt loyalty and concern for--the various people she met.

What had absolutely pushed me from "Hmmm, cool book; maybe one day I'll read it" to "I want to read this NOW" was the example Rachel gave of Anaxanadra's wonderment on first encountering a glass container, and I was rewarded with more encounters like that (first time encountering enough of something that you need to use the word "one thousand," first time encountering horses, etc). Even just her ordinary observations had a feel of ancient Greece to them that I loved, as when she describes the sound of water slapping the side of a boat like dogs drinking, or this, describing dolphins:

Dolphins swam alongside. Now and then they would leap out of the water and spin themselves like yarn.

And then radiantfracture posted a poem the other day, "Pahkwêsikan," by the poet Samantha Nock, that made me want to read the rest of the collection, the author's debut collection. It has a gorgeous cover:

( but the image is a little large, so under the cut it goes )

And now I have a copy!

Speaking of images, check out these great dusky swifts (Cypseloides senex), posted by Aves do Brasil, a bot that posts photos of birds of Brazil. Facebook says that the original photo was taken by Frodoaldo Budke.

( great dusky swifts )

With those intense, deep-set eyes, and clinging to the rock face like that, they seem like a pair of heroes: loyal siblings or friends, or intense lovers, out to redress a wrong. I want to write a story with them as the heroes ... maybe in human form--but that intensity!

I got five questions from osprey_archer!

1. What's a skill that you're proud of having?

... I'm realizing that it's hard to write an answer to this because as soon as I start composing in a direction, I think, Now you really sound like an insufferable asshole.

Am I perhaps proud of the skill of being able to guess when I'm about to sound like an insufferable asshole? ... Mmmm, I am not particularly proud of that. And I'm not even sure if my assessment is correct, so.

So ... skill implies something that you've worked on and honed--so not, say, a one-off accomplishment, and not something that's just part of your personality without your particularly exerting yourself.

Okay, how's this: I don't know if I'm proud, exactly, but it gives me great joy and exuberance to have discovered, in my fifties, that it's possible to learn multiple languages more or less simultaneously well enough to read them and attempt rudimentary communication in them. It literally feels like having developed a new sense, like my brain has changed its shape. ... Other people knew this delight from a young age, but not me. And there's something about coming to it later in life--you can be very consciously grateful, appreciative.

2. What's a treasured memory?

Sleeping together as a family on summer nights in Japan--the tactile-ness. The in-out of our breathing, together; our hearts are beating, together. Our foreheads are touching, or someone has an arm flung this way, or someone's toes are touching someone else's calves. Outside, insects are singing.

3. Do you have any unusual yearly traditions?

Not really; I have a hard time repeating things cyclically. For a while our family did Boston's Walk for Hunger yearly, but that's not a very unusual thing, and anyway, we since stopped. There are certain things I like to forage when the time is right (cattail pollen in June, chestnuts and hickory nuts in September and October), but I'm not consistent.

4. If you could have a telepathic companion animal, what kind of animal would you want?
I waver between something small enough to sit on my shoulder and something large enough that I could drape my arm over its shoulders. Much as it would be fun to have a telepathic connection with a dolphin (hello Ring of Endless Light) and fascinating to have one with a celphalopod, I think I'd prefer to have a connection with a terrestrial animal because delightful as water is, I can't breathe in it or even keep air in my lungs for as long as dolphins and other water-living mammals can. OTOH, if there are some telepathic marine creatures out there who are hankering for a connection, I withdraw that caveat! Come to me, friends!

... I guess not someone really small, like a tardigrade. I want to be able to see my companion. Probably someone adapted to the type of climate I live in--hello coyotes, bobcats, foxes, bear, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, mice. And I don't want to exclude birds, though I think I would want a very friendly type of bird for an animal companion--someone like a catbird or chickadee, or like the starling that drank the last of my sister's wine the other day.


5. Favorite museum?

Without a doubt, the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art.

Anyone else like some questions?

I have a new story out: "New Day Dawning."

A novel cyanobacterium is threatening ocean fish stocks, and Winna and Tomás are at an international conference convened to address the problem. Also at the conference is Káurë New Day, a participant from the Solimões Sodality whose presence warrants an FAQ and causes some strife.

Káurë New Day is named after Cacicus cela, called káurë in the Magüta language, and photographed here by Flickr user Francisco Piedrahita.



It's a pretty bird!

"Magüta" is an autonym for the people more commonly known to outsiders as the Tikuna or Ticuna. I am very excited to be--God willing--traveling to their ancestral lands in a few weeks, and I've been in contact with a Magüta tour guide who offers walks where you get to learn about plants and things. ... I may have overwhelmed him with a firehose of too much English and enthusiasm, but if I do get to meet up with him, I will be sure to write about it.

Here's that story link again ;-) "New Day Dawning"

A snowstorm is expected today, so yesterday I only felt like doing something kind of perfunctory, so I did these very standard Christmas bells.



But then this morning I woke up and ... no snow. No snow expected until after noon. Well, I couldn't do *two* perfunctory pictures, so I did one I'd been saving up: a blue jay.



And here, unrelated to the Advent calendar, is a sweet photo from the Daily Hampshire Gazette, a local paper: a snowy owl ^_^ What an armful!

I was so proud of myself yesterday when I jumped at the signal from the Massachusetts Twitter bot that lets you know when vaccines come available. I got one for me! And then one for Wakanomori, for today .... But his was in Great Barrington and mine was in North Adams... which are both about 90 minutes away. Self, if you are going to jump on vaccines, maybe jump on ones that are just a little bit closer?

But what was done was done, so we both gamely set aside pressing work and drove into the Berkshires--him to the south, me to the north. I saw many interesting sights** on my way, but pressed ahead, not stopping for photos, as I was on a mission, and in this manner got to my destination. And! the doors! were! locked! No one was about!

I looked at the reservation again. It was for THURSDAY. Ninety minutes for nothing, and now another 90 minutes back. At that moment my phone rang. It was Wakanomori. His appointment wasn't until Saturday.

Friends, pay attention when you fling yourself into booking a vaccine.

I canceled the Thursday booking. I don't feel like another three-hour round trip drive, especially as tomorrow is supposed to be chilly rain. I will fling myself at more proximate vaccine opportunities.

**However, on the ride back I was able to photograph almost all the wondrous sights I had seen on the way over. They included:

-- A quite large rock, contemplating its field. If you've read Ann Leckie's The Raven Tower, it looks like how I imagine the protagonist.



--Some very fine cattle, with magnificent horns, chilling:



--A rocket ship, because why the hell not, I guess? Don't look too closely at the message on the rocket.



Best of all, though, was a sandhill crane who sauntered across the road in front of me, elegant as you please with his handsome red mask and his fine legs. Sadly he did not wait around for my return journey to be photographed, but I found this photo, taken by Steve Heaslip for the Cape Cod Times, showing essentially what my crane looked like, though mine was walking in the opposite direction:



Here's the pond he came from:



A cool thing I saw but didn't photograph:

--a massive tractor-trailer that had splashed across its length: TRIBE EXPRESS: A NATIVE AMERICAN WOMAN OWNED BUSINESS. So that's pretty cool.

Something I learned: Susan B. Anthony was born in Adams, MA. Not North Adams, but Adams. But you want to know who was born in North Adams? Me!

It was a pretty blissy day, really, considering that it included three wasted hours and no vaccine.

We have gotten takeout three times since quarantine began. Each time, the dance has been different.

First time, the healing angel did the pickup: the restaurant had all the bags of takeout sitting out front, with names on them. The healing angel lit down, picked up our bag, and returned to our nest.**

Second time, I did the pickup. We placed the order and then the restaurant called when we could come and get it. They slid open a speakeasy-like slot and pushed the bag out onto a wide counter, and I reached up and took it.

Today, I did the pickup ... and this time I had to actually knock on the restaurant's inner door. A staffperson brought me my credit card slip to sign (this hadn't been necessary in the other two cases). We were both wearing masks but it was still surprising to be face to face with someone. I signed, left the slip on a bench, and the staffperson picked it up and left the bag there for me to take.

**speaking of nests, for many years UMass Amherst has had a falcon cam to watch as the peregrine falcons living at the top of the 28-story WEB DuBois library [third-tallest library in the world!] lay eggs, hatch young, and rear them to young adulthood. This year the female seems to be consorting with two males, both of whom are bringing her food as she sits on the eggs. It's a menage-à-trois! I thought of osprey_archer's latest, The Threefold Tie.

A car, marigold-orange, with a black stripe on the hood, coming up the hill. It was low and sleek. "Must be some kind of fancy-pants car," I thought. "I wonder what it is."

As it came closer, I saw that it had "MUSTANG" written on its windshield in huge letters. So that's what it was. Thank you, car, for answering my question. If all cars would label themselves that way, it would be much easier for car-blind people like me to identify them.

A shadow of a bird, passing over me. I looked up but couldn't see anything. Then a couple of moments later, a crow. Its shadow was so far ahead of it! It landed in a tree and cawed. Good morning to you too, crow.

Another runner, an old man in bright green and blue, who runs like he's about to collapse but who manages great distances. I waved, he said "Good morning! How are you?" "Pretty good," I said. "How about you?" "I'll be good soon," he said, smiling.