The Flood

Third week in April, rainy days persist.

Then one deep dark night, the deluge came.

After that it's Katy bar the door as regards anything like 'normal'.

A landscape that hadn’t seen this much rain in so short a time since who knows when positively overflowed.

Fleeing for their lives against rampaging current not of their making, riverine residents find refuge upon placid waters hidden deep in what's normally dry forest. Where by rights, they simply oughtn't be.

Their real world, unbound.

Terrestrial denizens struggle to make due.

This duck raises her brood in an exposed shallow pool left on otherwise flat prairie soon enough to be muck, infested with biting bugs.

One might even say the regular order of things had been overturned.

Except of course, that’s nowhere near true.

Instead, it’s reinvigorated.

For certain, not everything survived. But that's simply the way of things.

With May, persistent rain ended and spring occasionally shone bright.

The waters receded.

And when walking the green landscape of my youth…

…what’d been laid low by more than a century of abuse and callous neglect was risen into a new semblance of what it’s meant to be.

And for the 1^st time in civilized memory,

I beheld an entirely reasonable approximation

of the original

forest primeval.

Rainy Days

This past winter held fast to chronic dryness. Year’s long trend now. Lengthy enough to reflect a new normal.

Whatever the hell that may be.

Then it rained through much of March. Whole buckets full. Regularly, in downpours.

Previously parched, the happily wooded landscape sucked it right up.

Come second week of April, things were downright soggy.

The forest responded with appropriate glee.

Local rivers and creeks stood at bank full or just beyond. Wetlands did their job.

In my boyhood woods, all that water runs downhill.

Up top, nascent spring thrived.

Down below, vernal pools overflowed.

Bottomland held the excess.

This spring in these woods, long overdue rains finally came.

But what with aberrant conditions now being normal and all…

It turned out the crest was yet to come.

Love, in the Abstract

 

Theoretically speaking…

the less explained about abstract content the better.

Object being

that viewers find what they will,

then let fly

and see for themselves.

Left pondering

way,

shape

form,

even substance,

fruitfully combined.

Then decide for themselves what the hell to think.

Dancing with Death

Or, the (not so) itsy bitsy spider.

That’s my premiere image capture of 2025. By a longshot.

Every picture tells a story, they say.

As with most populist aphorisms that’s @ best only sort of true. You know, depending.

So here’s the rest of the story, for the record…

Relatively late one mid-September afternoon a big-assed orb weaver spider appeared in the air over our yard as if from nowhere.

Of course that simply can’t be true, no matter what our eyes tell us.

As I’d spent the better part of this truly splendid day embracing an aged oak forest, probably I inadvertently abducted the critter from there.

Little doubt such arbitrary relocation terrified the poor spider, but what's done is done and that's that.

Over each of the next four nights it crafted a massive new web in a different place, altering a far foreign landscape it never choose, perhaps to  survive.

How they anchor that complex project between two unconnected spots with a full three meters open space between, I can’t guess. Far as we know orb weaver spiders don’t fly, under cover of darkness or any other time for that matter.

Though it’d be mighty cool if they did.

Morning after the fifth night, we awoke to find the spider’s latest effort strung low  across our sidewalk and blocking our accustomed path, while the critter itself crouched a mere arm’s length or so above eye level.

We quick scooted around the obstruction to stand before our wayward guest.

Three times over the years, we’ve hosted nesting bumblebees.

Having chosen us, bumblers are among our special friends.

So you’ll understand we were aghast when a small one found itself trapped by the spider's more or less invisible snare.

The creature descended.

I kept right on shooting. Furiously even. In a way I never could, with film.

The hungry predator stared its helpless prey apparently down to the death.

And were that picture all you ever knew, you’d be forgiven for believing the lead image up top accurately reflects the story's end.

Except a moment later, the bumblebee executed a hard turn.

Then in the blink of an eye, shook itself loose and flew scot-free away.

Leaving only a sore displaced and undoubtedly irate orb weaving spider behind, cursing arbitrary fate.

The next night, our unexpected guest spun a semi-permanent home beneath the neighbor’s eave, well out of everyone’s way.

I don’t suppose that proved optimal, but there the thing remained until the morning it simply wasn’t anymore, the high maintenance web already frayed.

Meanwhile, autumnal life carried on.

Soon enough, this year the wayward orb weaver of this story will show back up, or not.

Such is life in spring.

To think that way back in the beginning, I contemplated being a wildlife photographer. 

Right until my excellent but slow film paired with cheap crappy lenses and lack of ready opportunity quick disabused me of any such notion.

Yet here I am today, macro shooting spiders and other such on the fly. Courtesy my Nikon magic wand, long may it productively wave.

Now that’s a whole story.

Copiously illustrated, no less.