Inside the Car, Inside the House and Then the Rest of the World

I turned on the radio during my drive to work: " you've given up texting," said the deejay. "What!?" exclaimed the co-host. "No, but I am thinking about it," explained the caller. "What would you do about friends that rely on texting?" asked the deejay. I flipped to a classic rock station after trying NPR out of Philadelphia "...stacked from Cottman to Girard..." and the "oldies" station which was playing an annoying commerical jingle instead of a weak disco tune.

The iPod has been very fond of Alice Cooper tonight. Now it has dug up Sleater Kinney from a past life. A Dave van Ronk song or two would be preferable, but the iPod has now chosen the grey clouded Skip James. Now DOA.

Several downy balls of eastern phoebe fluff nearly spill out of their nest above the tractor. They are listening to each other breathing and the life slowly evaporating out of the moss that their nest is built from.

The Baltimore checkerspots barked up a rush (Juncus sp.) and are learning it is the wrong tree.

Their brothers are fat on turtlehead leaves. They whip their heads as I pass them. I reach for the wizened but still alive caterpillars on ferns, rushes and sedges and put them on turtlehead leaves. This sentiment is why my lawn has ever expanding tufts of unmowed areas - take a hard right to avoid the black birch sapling, tack back to take out the Star of Bethlehem flowers and kick up the mower blades to narrowly miss the goldenrod.

The garden often has bird feathers on the earth. I welcome them, but please go easy on the blueberries.

Another cellophane balloon in the Sourlands. I never find them in the Hopewell Valley. There must be some kind of thermals - wouldn't we all rather see a red shouldered hawk wheeling on that warm draft instead of 99 Lufte Balloons?

Is holding a stare with a member of the animal kingdom more transfixing than with one of the plant kingdom? Flowers are faces. They turn to the sun. We know when they are looking away.