reflections – Page 3 – Carrie Birde

White Oak, A Profile — Images

Addis White Oak.jpg — “Addis White Oak” — C.Birde, 8/16

Allow me to introduce the Addis White Oak. This giantess, Quercus Alba, rears up from Greenwood Cemetery higher than I can guess. She would easily offer generous shade to a four-story home; it’s common for white oaks to reach heights between 80 and 100 feet.

Addis White Oak, Left branch.jpg — “Addis White Oak, Left” — C.Birde, 8/16

Addis White Oak, right branch.jpg — “Addis White Oak, Right” — C.Birde, 8/16

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Her extended limbs stretch outward at great, wide angles in all directions, easily as far as she is tall, and her lower branches run almost parallel to the earth. She wears gently round-tipped leaves, most of which are about eight inches in length, longer than my hand.

Created with Nokia Smart Cam — “Addis White Oak, Bark Detail” — C.Bird, 8/16

Her bark is far from white, but rather varying shades of gray. It is so scaled and deeply grooved, I can slip my fingers into fissured clefts. In some areas, her bark rises several inches from her in trunk in long sheaths.

Her roots are well anchored in the earth; her toes and ankles are felted with moss and lichen. She is just one of several enormous trees in this quiet little cemetery, and she is not the largest. I call her the Addis Oak for the family buried at her feet. Standing beneath her, I hear the creak and rustle of Time passing.

Addis White Oak, square format — “Addis White Oak, Illuminated” — C.Birde, 8/16

In an effort to estimate this tree’s age, I followed a simple formula — measure the trunk’s width at about four-and-a-half feet from the ground (137 inches); divide this number by pi (137 inches ÷ 3.141 = 43.61); multiply this number by the tree’s growth rate (white oak growth rate is 5, therefore 43.61 x 5 = 218.08), which makes this tree, by rough estimate, over two hundred years old. White oaks can reach ages between 200 and 300 years. Truly impressive. This is by no means the oldest white oak — the Wye Oak in Maryland was estimated to be over 450 years old before it fell in a thunderstorm in 2002. Another venerable white oak, the Great White Oak in Basking Ridge, New Jersey — ailing, though still standing — is thought to be over 600 years.

Yesterday’s Light — A Poem

Yesterday's Light.jpg — “All the Light of Yesterday” — C.Birde, 8/16

Gather all the light of yesterday —

sun and moon, star and fire,

in shafts and beams and sparks.

Strain thrice —

of cloud and shadow,

and random occlusion

(reserve for another use).

Pour into large, wide-mouthed jar

with tight-fitting lid

and set to distill

in a south-facing window

for three weeks.

Taste, to assure desired strength.

Decant into phials and bottles.

Inhale to counteract the blues.

Dab on pulse points to restore the heart.

Apply to the soles of feet to lighten the step.

Stroke over eyelids to find silver linings.

Touch to the tongue’s tip to sweeten words.

Glide over lips to revive a smile.

Pour over ice in Summer and serve

with mint and lemon slices.

In Winter, heat with cinnamon

and cloves and allspice

and ladle into mugs.

Share with friends, family,

and strangers.

Use generously.

— C.Birde, 8/16

photo writing

Black-Eyed Susan — An Image

Black-Eyed Susan.jpg — “Black-Eyed Susans” — C.Birde, 8/16

I pause at the garden gate

to exchange brown-eyed glances

with Black-Eyed Susans.

— C.Birde, 8/16

flowers Nature photo writing

Morning Heat — Images

Reservoir, Left, July.jpg — “Reservoir Haze” — C.Birde, 7/16

Haze thickened air

stretches over morning’s tender hours,

accompanied by the ratchet and whir

of cicada chorus —

promises of heat to come.

— C.Birde, 7/16

Reservoir and Trestle, July.jpg — “Reservoir Bridge” — C.Birde, 7/16

Nature photo weather writing

Dreamlessness, Week #2 — A Truth

Though I try to assure retention, my dreamless state continues. It is as if I kneel at the water’s edge of dreams, shins and the tops of my feet pressed against damp and pebbled banks. Leaning forward, I peer into that fluid body to see what darting minnows, what tadpoles and frogs and crayfish might live and move within. Each flash of movement that draws my attention is quickly interrupted, disturbed — a shift in light alters reflections; waters’ surface ripples with wind; something stirs below to send up obscuring plumes of silt. And if I am fortunate enough to slip my hand into that reservoir — slowly — and close fingers about some small, mercurial thing — gently — it eludes my grasp. Withdrawing my hand, I find it has escaped as certainly as the water streaming from my spread fingers.