June 13

Each time I go out to the barn, within ten feet of passing near the burning bush that sits on the front corner, the mother robin emerges from within and flies away low and straight toward the berm woods.

I feel guilty about disturbing her so, but one does have to wonder about the sense robins possess when planning the logistics of nest building. Our robin pair that has been coming for  ten years, albeit likely a couple of generations of the birds, inevitably decides to build their nest in either the viburnum bush in the front of the house or the burning bush by the barn. This, despite the fact that these two locations are heavily trafficked by us.

I notice throughout town a similar pattern. The robins seem to prefer human activity, yet when it comes to time sit on the nest, any interruption is met with protesting cries and taking flight in the manner of these birds.

I decided to peek yesterday, after the mother had taken to the woods. There within the bush, the nest contained two babies, nearly at fledgling stage I’d guess by the look of them. They regarded me silently with beady black eyes and mouths slightly open, feathers still tufted with downy-like fur.

I stayed long enough to whisper to them that should they decide to return here next year, not to build their nest so close to the barn or house; they would be welcome nonetheless.

Notes:

Daisy fleabane blooming

June 12

The roads were damp this morning from an overnight shower, brought in from another tropical front out of the south. Daybreak saw high humidity from the outset, leaving the saturated ground and leaf cover heavy with moisture. It had a heavy feel that hinted at midsummer yet to arrive.

The moisture somehow brought out the odor of the wild roses, having come to bloom within the past few days, and in some places lining the roadside edges with their white blossoms. They resembled strawberry flowers, only larger and clustered together, and their fragrance just now is intoxicating.

South road has roses on both sides, particularly for the first few hundred yards as it leaves the Holden road, where there are no houses to interfere. There is just the tunneled canopy of green, maples and oaks, ash and hickory, and the roadside ditch is filled with wild rose, so much so that it is a contrast of perfume when traveling by.

The moisture has brought forth another seasonal migrant; the spotted red newts are evidently on the move. These delicate little creatures will be traveling to and from wetland locations, just now in the eft stage, which is distinguished by their almost luminescent orange body with tiny reddish spots. They are tiny things, no bigger than an inch or two, and they move with the speed and purpose akin to the sloth – slow and deliberate, placing tiny feet one after the other in slow progression.

They are easy to spot now, when contrasted against the dark wet pavement.

June 11

The north road on Wachusett Mountain begins as an access trail, two-track with tufts of poverty grass and stone bedding in between. It starts at the base of the ski buildings and winds upward criss crossing the cleared ski slopes and rising steadily counter-clockwise up the mountain, through several patches of what appear to be old growth forest.

After approximately 2 miles, the road has gained nearly 1000 feet of elevation, and the landscape is transformed to a state of vegetation that we experienced two to three weeks ago. In short, we felt as if we’d stepped back in time to late spring, with bluets in the roadside ditch, hyacinths doting the rocks, and patches of violets in the wetland glades seen from the path.

The air was noticeably cooler here and cleaner feeling somehow, and we had the road to ourselves as we ascended to the point where it exits onto the paved mountain road. Here, at the gate that prevents cars from gaining access from the mountain road, we skirted the iron crossing by going round near the woods. Just there in the shady wetland of the woods stood a singular and perfect lady slipper, back lit by a shaft of sun that found entry through a hole in the canopy overhead.

Notes:

Orange hawkweed in bloom.

June 10

A tropical storm came through last night, bringing torrential rains that lasted for hours, leaving the yard and driveway littered with leaf fall and puddles to greet the morning light. The weatherman proclaimed we received nearly four inches in our area, and I do not doubt this after such a deluge.

Like all fast storms that race up the coast, this moved onward by early morning, leaving a breaking sky in its wake - low-level clouds that swiftly moved by, where upper cirrus and blue sky appeared in pockets in between. By eleven o’clock, the sky took on a summer look, with brilliant blue and white puffs of cumulus clouds floating in shapes overhead.

Across the road, in low spots between the rows, puddles of water sat awaiting the already saturated ground to discharge, and the hatchling killdeer chicks used the plastic rows as islands for travel, looking like little cotton balls moving swiftly up the black lining, dodging the growing lettuce which is now the size of dinner plates.

June 9

There is an old trail, long fallow, that runs behind the Klingele Fields, beginning at the top of the hill within the woods on the southern end and extending through the ridge. Several years ago, this path was more apparent, but the ice storm of 2010 brought down so many limbs that it is now barely recognizable and most certainly untraveled.

One hundred feet into the woods are the remnants of a camp house that stood here decades ago, belonging I’m told to one of the David sons who worked and hunted these lands long before their development. The trail passes beside the dilapidated structure, then descends somewhat precipitously on the slop that leads to Asnebumskit Pond.

Where the trail begins, I discovered a small patch of wild geranium amid the more plentiful yarrow that is now coming into its own. Also there was a pleasant surprise of blue-eyed grass – something I’ve not seen before, apart from photos in books. It reminded me of lake reed grass or sedge, with flat blades that rise in a clone, each with a cluster of flowers just beneath its top. These blue-eyed plants have groups of small lavender flowers, which catch the passing breeze and cause the whole clone to sway.

Notes:

Wild rose in bloom

Lavender in bloom

June 8

A summery high pressure moved in after such a period of languishing humidity and doldrums. It must have been notably still these past several days, as a gust that came this morning, seeming to herald the arrival of the change in weather, shook the spruce line across the road so that a mass of pollen was released.

It was as if a living cloud had been instantly created, and we watched in wonder as it moved quickly across the road and toward the house, shifting and mixing visibly in the current of air like a yellowy swarm of insects or a large flock of birds when seen at a great distance.

In seconds, it was upon us, passing through and over, hitting the house and lifting up and over the roof, leaving in its wake a thin coating of powder-yellow pollen on everything, including us, who could only stand helplessly assaulted by the spruce’s output.

Notes:

Purple/pink phlox beginning to bloom.

June 7

The plowing work has mostly finished across the street, with rows having been prepared and seeding accomplished in roughly half. The remaining await the transplants, which presently occupy the driveway in front of the store, having been moved out from the greenhouse. Here there are thousands of peppers and eggplant, sitting in flats, each plant six inches or so tall and nicely green, miniature clones of one another that sit soaking in the sun.

The tractors still run, though the yolks are now affixed to the cultivators, and the runs proceed up and down the rows of growing corn, still 10” high, cutting the roots of the wild mustard, ragweed, purslane, and shepherd’s purse which have taken residence in the valleys between the corn.

The cover crop of rye and vetch is healthy in the fallow field that sits below the knoll. Purple flower clusters speckle within the rye, which themselves sheen a silver teal in the afternoon sun. I suspect this field will be plowed under soon, returning the carbon and nitrogen to the soil and thus adding to its fertility for future plantings.