Blue Adirondacks

Four blue Adirondacks in search of an audience.
The community is a-Twitter and a-Tweet:  “What are you doing?”

Facebook.  YouTube.  TicToc.  The technocracy of buzz.

Meanwhile, in the trees, robins trill Printemps melodies.
Descendants of dinosaurs, their tiny throats flicker ancient songs.

What are you not doing?

The North Wind Doth Blow

A West Seattle Robin sings for paparazzi.

West Seattle was blanketed by a thick, fresh snowfall in December.  It was beautiful;  definitely a day to tug on boots and enjoy a walk in our neighborhood — such an uplift from the omnicron buzz. 

I hear a robin trill and find her perched on the snowy branch of a tree and take her picture.

Hamilton View Park is my destination.  The Park overlooks Elliot Bay and has a hill where kids like to take their sleds and saucers to have a merry time in the snow.   Just as I am about to cross the street towards the Park, a child approaches.  She is alone and crying. 

“Can you help me?” she says.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m lost.  I don’t know where my home is.”

“Alright.  Be calm, dear.  What’s your name?”


“How far have you been walking?”

“I don’t know.   I left the house because I wanted to play in the snow.  I asked my brother to come with me, but he didn’t want to.  He’s autistic.” 

“Were you with the kids at the park?”

She shakes her head “No.”

“How far do you think you are from your home?”

“I don’t know.  My Mom lives near the water.  But I don’t live with her.”

My mind processes the situation.   We are in a snowstorm in the midst of a pandemic.  Snow reshapes things.  Is the kid lost and confused because of the snow?  Or maybe covid has added to her confusion?  It has certainly added to mine.   I want to help, but how?  

“OK, Rosemary.  Just be calm.  Walk with me.”

We walk in silence.  My brain is processing:   This girl is surely old enough to know where home is.   But when I ask, she does not know her address or her phone number.   I size her up.   She looks to be maybe eight years old.   She is bundled in pink and lavender layers and looks cared for.  Her blonde hair drapes over a fluffy scarf.  I wonder about her home life.

I think of the robin on the tree branch whose picture I took.  An old song from my childhood arose:   The North Wind Will Blow And We Shall Have Snow and Where Will Poor Robin Go?  I feel I am walking with a lost, little bird.

At first, I think about taking Rosemary home.  That would not work; we would be no closer to finding her home.  Then I have an idea:  the fire department.  I remember walking past Station #29 after taking the photo of the robin.

“I know what we’ll do, Rosemary,” I tell her.  “The fire department is a few blocks away.  We’ll go there.”

She nods, calms down.

We ring the bell at the firestation.  I explain to the three firefighters there that the girl is lost.  “Where did you find her?” one of them asks.  I give him an approximate location.

 Then a female firefighter asks Rosemary:  “Are your feet cold?  Do you need socks?   Want some water?”

All the firemen try and make her feel comfortable. 

Then one asks “What’s your last name?”  Rosemary tells him and he taps the information into his cell phone. 

“Is your mother an attorney?”

“Yes,” the girl says. 

I am amazed by mankind’s ability to collect so much data so fast by simply consulting a smartphone. 

Rosemary then explains that her parents are divorced and she lives with her father.  She says her Mother lives near the water somewhere. 

“You mean Alki Beach?”

Rosemary nods.

The firefighters discuss how they will handle the situation and end up agreeing that Rosemary’s status as a missing child needs to be addressed by the police.

“They will drive you around, Rosemary.  They will help find your home.”

At dinner, I tell the story to my husband.  We come up scenarios about the divorced parents, the autistic brother, the police showing up at the door with the lost girl, the parents blaming each other for this incident.  

And when my head hits the pillow to sleep, the old song is there:  The North Wind Will Blow And We Shall Have Snow and Where Will Poor Robin Go? 

Turf Wars

We have a chestnut tree in our back yard.  Chestnuts and leaves blanket the lawn.  The squirrels are in fat city.  They scamper and scratch holes in the grass.  They bury their treasure in the rockery.

But this year, the blue jays, who have a nest in our mountain ash tree, are in on the action too.  I witness a chestnut battle.

One of the Blues descends from the mountain ash.  Soon, a nut is in his beak.  He returns to a branch with his prize.

Squirrel stands erect and looks distressed.  He is frozen and perplexed by Blue.  His tiny front paws fold over his chest.  Discouraged?  No.  He darts to the lawn for more chestnuts.

He hops around, stores a nut in his cheek, and eventually scratches a hole to bury it.  Squirrels bury an average of 10,000 nuts a year and end up eating only about 4,000. 

Is it greed?  Since the Blue jays have been showing up, is he hiding more of his booty?

Enter Squirrel #2.  He leaps toward Squirrel #1 who scoots into the rockery. 

More Blue jays descend.  

Blue jays are carnivores known to rob baby squirrels from nests and prey on juvenile squirrels.

Squirrel #2 has intimidated Squirrel #1 who darts away to a more distant cranny in the rocks. 

He scratches and inspects a burrow, stands on his hind legs, and looks distraught.  Has Squirrel #2 confiscated a nut from Squirrel #1’s domain?

“Where’d my nut go?” he seems to be saying.  Squirrel #1 is hyper, scampers to a tree, circles around its trunk, and then disappears into the tree canopy.

 I imagine a squirrel conversation in the canopy:

“Betty.  Sid just moved in on my turf.  He’s the greediest squirrel in our berg.   Even worse, the bluebirds must have a nest around here.  They’re bogarting our chestnuts.  Do we have enough nuts for Thanksgiving?  Check the pantry.”

“Oh, Lenny.  You know that I do.”  Betty opens the tree pantry.  Empty shells spill out.

Lenny is panicked.  “OMG.  Who got to them?  Was it the blue jays or that greedy Sid?”

Betty shrugs.  “Suck it up.  We’ll get by.”

“Young Sammy will have to help.  Where is the boy?”

“Last time I saw Sammy he was chasing his tail,” says Betty

What?  I thought only dogs chased their tails.”

“Chalk it up to adolescence, Lenny.  Let it go.”

Okay, this may not have been the scenario in the tree canopy.  And there may be no juvie squirrel named Sammy.  But if there is, he should watch his back.  The blue jays may move up the food chain and prey on him.

Fairy Garden

Mom in her fairy garden. She inspires my Muse.

Come dance with me in the fairy garden
in the glow from the harvest moon.
We’ll prance in rings to the fiddler’s strings
under archways of silvery blooms.

The fireflies shall light the path
with lamps of amber and gold.
You might spy an elf, a pixie, a gnome
in the hollow of a tree trunk’s soul.

And if you spot the Fairy Queen
arrayed in a dress of rose petals
give her a wave and your steps will grow light
as the down of the nightingale’s feather.

You shall feel much joy in this secret garden
where the stars sprinkle dust from the heavens.
Where the robins pipe songs from dusk to dawn
and the wind softly carries bird blessings.

Bird Eats Cat


In the garden, a chickadee pecks at you,
kisses the ground nourished by your ashes.

paws, emerald eyes —

now burned to a chickadee prize.

The tangerine poppies have turned blood orange;
they sway

like lit Oriental lanterns
as we look for you

in nature’s patterns.

Is the bird’s song sharper from feeding on you?
Have you fertilized flowers to a deeper hue?

Cattails rise like questions in the morning dew.


We admired ancient Egyptians.
Painted boxes, families who cared enough to draw birds,
carry cakes and ale to their beloveds.

We did not cremate her.
We buried her like a sacred Egyptian,
tucked in relics:  a lavender heart, garnet ring, Celtic holy card,
the papyrus of her poetry, photos of her Depression childhood.

When the parakeet died she found just the right shoe box.
She folded its blue feathers in with toys and seeds,
painted popsicle sticks green and formed them into a crucifix.

All that winter we waited.

In spring the potato vine blossomed
and stretched over our bird grave.

She believed in rituals — even miracles,
spoke of ancestors clawing sod with bare hands,
turning over blackened spuds.
Their larders bare, nothing to fortify them but prayer.