A biophilic forward operating base In the midst of seasonal modification The airborne unit is in recce mode New targets were installed at 1400 Zulu Bluetit is the first Oscar Mike The tiny sortie checks go/no go for IP And flatters nervously checking for bogeys His friends chirp: buster for target! And finally he makes contact Hover in flight refuelling before a fast RTB Such is the urgency around the new birdfeeder
This still needs some work. We were joking that the songbirds keep using the camelia as a FOB so I wanted to write a poem that reflects the urgency and excitement around getting to the snackies all the while avoiding the sparrow hawk.
Note: this is written as a spoken word poem so get your rap on! I will attempt and upload a voice recording later.
Did you know buzzards have FOMO? You can watch them moving in SloMo, On a soggy field far from Soho. Rat girl summer is over Fosho.
Buzzards just wanna kick-it. Choosing mud over thicket. Picking worms is the ticket, Seeing others chum a big hit.
That’s how the crowd begun: They flew over mates having fun, Stagger through mud like RayGun, Hunting for worms on the run.
Background story
In a field close by, usually over the winter, we observe dozens of buzzards gathering, but only that one field! There are none (with maybe the odd exception) in any of the other fields, although the conditions appear to be the same. So some digging through forums has unearthed that buzzards indeed gather based on seeing other buzzards already sitting in the field–hence the FOMO (fear of missing out)!
If you are like me a bit too grey around the edges for the youth slang
FOMO = Fear Of Missing Out SloMo – Slow Motion Fosho = For Sure (feeling like the cool aunt as I learned this from the nephew) chum = is not just fish food but also hanging out together
The only sound are gentle drops, running off my orange paddle, hitting the salty waters of Loch Eishort—a North Atlantic bay in the Inner Hebrides. I sit motionless in my kayak watching the sea haar silently flowing over the hills, sinking into the ocean. As above so below mesmerised when the horizon disappears entirely I hang suspended, floating amongst the clouds. The stories of Avalon appearing out of the mist suddenly make sense. I think; turning around to face coral island—too small to be a mythical land, and yet …
Naddy watch! An urgent shout runs across the water in hurried strides. Two o’clock from me. There is something huge! It’s moving fast.
I suddenly feel vulnerable in my small kayak suspended between the vastness of water and sky. And then I see them—large disturbances in the water. Distances are difficult to judge, I will look it up later and estimate about one mile and a half East of us. As if a huge fish is being chased by an unknown creature, trying to escape with zig zag movements. For a fraction of a second I see something poking out of the water, too large to be a seal head, no dolphin fins, no fins at all. Whatever it is, incredible speed carries it across the bay, going inland. Something is hunting, we agree, and stay well away. Do Kelpies live in saltwater?
Let’s continue across the bay and visit Allt na Peighinn waterfall, we agree. Although curiosity pulls me towards the unknown creature. Not that I could keep up that speed in my steady fat fishing kayak. Disconcerted my eyes keep tracing the inlay for whoever caused the commotion but tranquillity has returned, my nerves settle, and soon enough my attention is forced on territorial terns. Yes, we are wearing base caps, and no we are not persons of interest for the feisty flyers. They are having beef with local gulls and are cheered on by oyster catchers. I am picking up speed, lest the inhabitants of Eilean Gaineamhach Boreraig turn their attention to me.
Finally, the waterfall is moving closer. I check the time it took us to get across the bay. We pull ashore for a snack break, and decide to follow the coastline before crossing over again. J is slightly behind me scouting for fishing spots. When I notice movement ahead. Is this a seal? No too small. It’s an otter! I quietly squeal.
The creature pauses its movement and I viscerally feel attention wash over me. No way did she hear my squeal? She is still too far away to see clearly. But. I know. I just know she is coming towards me. Pause. She lifts her head out of the water, another surge of attention. And off she goes smooth movements snake towards my kayak. Pause. Again. Pop up head. Again. Attention again. And off she goes, again. Tiny bow waves purposefully wash in my direction. I can literally feel J holding his breath just as I do. I don’t dare turning around to check in with him. In mutual agreement we stopped speech, movement, even breath. The water is holding us in place. The kayaks have stopped drifting. And suddenly she is so close I can make out the powerful body slinking elegantly through the water. Pause. Head out of water, curious eyes lock with mine. She dives forward. Yet a bit closer, right in front of me, her eyes lock with mine again. I gasp. Hello, I say. Thank you for visiting with us. She nods, and looks on. Then her tiny ears fold over, and I can see her nostrils close. She dives once more and pops up again, next to me, the other side of the kayak now, eyes lock once more. I can feel hot tears running down my cheeks. An eternal moment.
“Gran!” I shouted limping as quickly as quick could be. ”I stepped on one again! It sat on a daisy. The bee.” I added as means of explanation. As if the daisy would bring me salvation! ”How many times have I told you not to run barefoot?” She scolds. I shrug. How am I supposed to quantify that?
A twang, it stang—again—and then the tweezers done their job. Granddad grinned and gently chinned the rebellious child barefoot.
Gran cut an onion in half, to pull out the poisonous puss. I had to sit still for a while with vegetable fixed to my foot. And I made faces and complained a bit about how sore it all was. While feeling guilty for the demise—again—of a small furry buzz. “Well child if you would listen.” Gran sighed and paused. No use to child or beast after harm caused.
An hour later.
Sweet cherry plumes—not feathered, wafted with gentle intoxication. Beckoning the rebellious child into calm abdication. Permission to enter the Queendom; was granted; By omission of artificial scents and execution of slow movements. He was covered from head to toe in white. The gauze of the beekeeper’s hat rolled up, Lest the wooden pipe would set it on fire.
”Na, Schnuck?” He said out of the corner of his mouth. ”All better?”
I nod, I smile, my eyes transfixed on the buzzing clanship. Pop’s movements all deliberation, like a slow-motion movie strip. My big strong hot headed mother’s father became Zen master, of the Queendom. Hypnotised drones bumbling about him, just as enchanted as I am.
We all knew somehow, somewhere, we would always be safe there, In the beekeeping hut. Arms which each could hold a 100kg sack moving in fluid serenity. Subdued by cherry plumes—not feathered, and meditative movement. So I fall into enchanted choreography: cat’s paw and master and drones.
They stand guard, tall presence, evanescent permanence. Centuries, and decades, carried them through storms and heat, snow, and hail. A haphazardly thrown together wood pigeon nest visible now that the canape of leaves is thinning. I can feel their hum, soundtrack of a silent silver-lighted evening. Maple, birch, beech, elm, ash, rowan. Scots pine with her gnarly branches towers over hawthorns’ crooked and knotted bodies, arms reaching to shape elder futhark runes. Othala holds all. Twisted limps, adorned by thorns and blood red pearls. Unlike the elder striving up and out as straight as can be, the last of their night-sky velvet booty beckons the tentative forager. Elfen ears such bright spots of orange early in the year, are floppy dachshund shaped and coloured now—just not as fluffy.
I breathe-in autumn and the ever present pulse, breathing out tension and arrhythmia. Step by step by step. Breath, by breath, by breath. Pause. Exhale more. And more, until the last of this breath is gone. I gulp, swallow, drink the humid terpene laden air, the smell of petrichor heavy on my tongue, my lungs expand deeper, wider. Don’t pant against the tightness, just exhale—even further—until nought is left. And then trust, trust your body as the reflex demands expansion, of lungs, chest, diaphragm. Trust the breath of life, trust the guardians—producing oxygen on exhale—trust in your feed moving forward. Step, by step, by step. Breath, by breath, by breath.
*Elfen ears are mushrooms not sure what their actual name is this is the name I know them by ** There is indeed a hawthorn whose branches are shaped like the rune Othala along the path
Tide pools The receding ocean creates magical underwater worlds. A temporary present by the grace of the moon.
Palaemon elegans: too pretentious? Okay then: rock pool shrimp. Erratic movement entropy as my shadow falls The claw of crab just about visible hiding in its bed-rock.
Magic bubbles slowly fizz to the surface. Did you know these underwater meadows and forests of kelp Create more oxygen than the rain forest? Don’t dump shit into our rivers.
There are no words Doing justice to mountains wearing an ice crystal tiara, once the sun hits after a snow shower. The layered papercut of hills stretches seemingly endless into the horizon Spring growth is slowly changing the landscape Still predominantly browns–you would think it’s boring But the dramatic light as clouds chase the sun
Or is sun chasing the clouds?
Takes your breath anyway. Hidden emerald jewels made of small ponds Are dotted across the broken skin of the ancient hills. Thousands of birds, a deer looks at us curiously, red squirrels dash across paths, And I almost have an air traffic accident with a robin–we are both racing downhill. It smells of summer in waiting. Of bark and rain. As soon as the sun breaks through the clouds my cold fingers warm up. Rough ground crunches underneath my tires. The tick green of pines darkens the path. Only sunrays manage to break through, Dousing us in green light. The scent becomes heavy with acidic soil. And still there are no words to describe the scenery adequately
A kaleidoscope of cascading ridges As above So below
An imperceptible breeze Gently moves the silvery surface Ever so slightly distorting the twinning hills A liquid mirage
It is late August So late the woods smell of autumn
Mother pine is our host today The tend pitched within her embracing roots Clinging to the shoreline
I feel salvaged anyway The sap moves tangibly below my sleeping matt Branches above shelter from immediate sun or rain The moon hangs like a windchime between two pine trunks Despite the morning light
Tranquility distracts me for a moment From all the things I should be doing instead
Poetry by Nathalie 