Category: Nature

Unveiling the Ancient Beauty of Interrupted Ferns

In the hush of Sapsucker Woods, Interrupted Ferns unfurl their ancient green with quiet grace—guardians of time, rooted in myth, memory, and moss.

MichaelStephenWills13 Comments


In a shaded hollow of Sapsucker Woods, where the hush of ancient time lingers like mist among the trees, the Interrupted Fern rises from the soft, damp floor with a quiet grace. Its fronds, broad and arching, seem less grown than unfurled—as if unrolling a memory held for millions of years.

The plant’s name, Osmunda claytoniana, carries echoes of two worlds. “Osmunda,” perhaps once spoken in the sacred groves of northern Europe, is thought to honor a forgotten god—Osmunder, one of Thor’s names, a guardian of strength and storm. The species name pays tribute to John Clayton, an early colonial botanist who walked Virginia’s forests centuries ago and recognized in this fern a quiet marvel worth remembering.

And so this plant, whose lineage reaches back more than 200 million years, is rooted not just in soil and stone, but in language and lore.

The fern’s common name—Interrupted—describes the curious habit of its fertile fronds, which rise briefly in midsummer, dark and beadlike, then wither and vanish, leaving a ghostly gap midway up the blade. It is as though the plant had paused mid-sentence, letting silence speak where others would persist. In this interruption, the forest itself seems to take a breath.

The roots of Osmunda claytoniana twist into fibrous mats beneath the soil. These rhizomes, dense and springy, were once harvested as osmunda fiber, prized by horticulturists for cradling delicate orchids—a gentle reminder of how often nature’s strength serves human fragility. And though the Interrupted Fern is not celebrated in pharmacopeias, its kin were used by Indigenous peoples as poultices for wounds, or brewed into mild tonics to ease internal aches—suggesting a long, quiet partnership with humankind.

Forest Floor in Sapsucker Woods on a summer afternoon

There is little need for blossoms or fragrance here. The beauty of this fern is in its restraint. Its fronds do not shout, but rather whisper of deep time, of shaded ravines and glacial meltwaters, of forests that once stood where oceans now roll. Some said ferns were touched by magic—that they bloomed only on Midsummer’s Eve and vanished before the eye could see. The Interrupted Fern, with its appearing and disappearing fronds, might well have inspired such tales.

And so, in the filtered light beneath the canopy, this ancient fern lives on—not as a relic, but as a quiet thread in the fabric of the living forest. To stand in its presence is to feel a kind of reverence—not for what is rare, but for what endures.

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Carved by Time: Exploring the Virgin River and Cross-Bedded Sandstone in Zion’s Narrows

A quiet moment along the Virgin River reveals the artistry of nature—where water, stone, and time shape Zion’s majestic Narrows in subtle, surprising ways.

MichaelStephenWills

In Zion National Park, where towering sandstone cliffs rise from the desert floor, the Virgin River weaves a persistent and graceful thread through deep canyons carved over millennia. The river is the creative force behind Zion’s signature landscape, sculpting stone with a patient hand. Among its greatest achievements is the Narrows—a sinuous gorge where water and light perform a timeless duet. The two photographs shown here draw us into an intimate corner of that realm, where water flows past a rock face marked by both subtlety and drama.

At first glance, what stands out is the unusual structure on the wall behind the river—a feature that at a distance could easily be mistaken for a man-made stairway. But closer observation reveals this to be a natural element, the result of erosion acting upon cross-bedded Navajo Sandstone. The texture and linearity of these formations are remnants of ancient sand dunes hardened into rock nearly 190 million years ago, during the Jurassic period. What looks like precision carving is, in fact, the legacy of sedimentation, lithification, and the scouring action of water over time.

In the first photograph, the scene is bathed in soft, diffused light, lending a quiet tone to the flowing water and the weathered rock face. The surface of the Virgin River becomes a silky sheet, its motion captured with long exposure so that it seems to glide effortlessly past the cluster of smooth stones in the foreground. Here is a deep calm—the kind that can be heard in the hush of water over stone and felt in the breathless silence of a canyon morning.

Click each photo for a larger view
Taken using the Kodak DCS Pro SLR/c mounted with a Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM lens

The second photograph, taken under brighter conditions, reveals the same scene with different character. The increase in light clarifies the water’s transparency, the greens of moss and lichen on the wall, and the golden tones of the sandstone. What you see is a pattern formed by layers of wind-blown sand, once part of vast dunes, now standing as a stone ledger of time. The river, its bed visible beneath the shallow flow, seems to read this text as it passes—century by century, pebble by pebble.

The Virgin River begins high in Southwestern Utah, at the Navajo Reservoir in the Dixie National Forest north of Zion National Park and travels over 160 miles to join the Colorado River, carving through layers of sedimentary rock as it descends. In the Narrows, the canyon walls rise up to a thousand feet while the corridor narrows to just 20–30 feet across in places. The intimacy of the Narrows contrasts with the vast openness elsewhere in Zion, enclosing the traveler in a world of water and stone, shadow and echo.

Walking the Narrows means walking in the river itself—an experience that engages body and spirit alike. The water is rarely still, and neither is the trail. Slippery rocks and ever-shifting current demand attention and balance. Yet, this very immersion invites a deeper kind of awareness. You are observing nature from within it, shaped by nature, and held by nature.

What the photos capture so eloquently is that Zion is a place where the work of nature can appear deliberate, even architectural. The illusion of stairways in the sandstone, carved not by hands but by wind, gravity, and time, is a reminder of how little separates the human sense of design from the forms nature produces. We recognize rhythm and repetition, elevation and flow, and are drawn to interpret meaning from these patterns.

But perhaps the meaning lies not in what we impose, but in what we receive. The Virgin River’s passage through this sculpted corridor teaches patience, resilience, and the beauty of gradual transformation. Its waters do not fight the rock; they yield, swirl, and persist—until the rock, by degrees, gives way. What results is a landscape both eternal and ever-changing.

Zion’s grandeur is easy to admire its many amazing overlooks, but its soul is found in quiet places like this—where sandstone walls, smoothed by water and time, speak not in shouts but in whispers. Here, beside a seeming stairway that leads nowhere and everywhere, we come face to face with the artistry of the Earth.

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Exploring Sipapu Bridge: A Scenic Descent

Experience the thrill of descending into Utah’s White Canyon—slickrock trails, driftwood ladders, and stunning views await at Sipapu Bridge in Natural Bridges Monument.

MichaelStephenWills6 Comments
The final descent into White Canyon to view Sipapu Bridge, Natural Bridges National Monument near Blanding, Utah

Final Step

Here is a photograph of the final stage of our descent into White Canyon. Here the trail traverseed a type of sandstone called “Slickrock.” For Pam and I the surface was like sandpaper and, for the right type of shoes, provides great traction.

That day I wore Lowe hiking boots with a harder sole and these could slip at times. I’d recommend a different shoe for the trail, but my boots come over the ankle and provide great support. Plus, the canyon bottom is sandy, so high boots prevent sand from falling into the shoe. A perfect choice for this trip is a high boot that provides support, with a softer sole on a hard and light shank (to protect you against sharp rocks).

What is Slickrock?

Slickrock was named by the first settlers and explorers who discovered their iron shod horses lost footing on the steep slopes of this sandstone.

This was another feature of Pam and my descent into White Canyon. The sandstone weathers in a way that produces steep slopes over which the trail must pass and the traveler navigate. I chose this image as a Fine Art print (part of a series featuring Natural Bridges National Monument) because this part of the trial is strange and beautiful.

The hard rock cliffs are resistant to wear and, in this climate, weather to provide rounded surfaces. The cliff face is scalloped and marked with desert varnish striations that “pop out” from the red rock. Then, there is the clear light and bright morning sky on a summer morning that promised thunderstorms.

Gratitude

Then, there are the personal memories of that iron railing drilled into the rock and that marvelous looking ladder created from driftwood found in the canyon.  That ladder is a work of art!!  The photograph does not reproduce the feeling Pam and I had at that point of the descent.  I needed to climb down the ladder backwards (facing out) and holding on .

We were both grateful to reach the sandy stream bed in White Canyon.

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Discover Cushendun: A Coastal Gem in Northern Ireland

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

Cushendun (from Irish: Cois Abhann Doinne, meaning “foot of the River Dun”) is a small coastal village in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. It sits off the A2 coast road between Cushendall and Ballycastle.

It has a sheltered harbor and lies at the mouth of the River Dun and Glendun, one of the nine Glens of Antrim. The Mull of Kintyre in Scotland is only about 15 miles away across the North Channel and can be seen easily on clear days.

In the 2001 Census it had a population of 138 people. Cushendun is part of Causeway Coast and Glens district.

SONY DSC

Here are several of the information placards near the harbor explaining some local history.

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Ballyteerin townland, where Shane O’Neill was killed, is on the road to Torr Head.

Reference: Wikipedia, “Cushendun.”

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Exploring Sims-Jennings Preserve: A Nature Lover’s Delight

A walk through Sims-Jennings Preserve unveils ancient cliffs, vibrant bird calls, and the quiet wisdom of maples and waterfalls along Cayuga Lake’s forested edge.

MichaelStephenWills15 Comments

I arrive early, the sun still climbing its slow arc, brushing the eastern sky in pastels as I step into the Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs. The trailhead, tucked neatly along NYS Route 34B, is a doorway into an ancient chapter of the Finger Lakes—one rich with the scent of moss, the hush of leaf-dappled silence, and the layered echoes of stone and birdsong.

The first thing that strikes me is the expanse of mowed meadow, rimmed with goldenrod and patches of milkweed. From here, the land rolled gently westward until it ends abruptly in cliffs that plummeted toward Cayuga Lake. A map at the entrance speaks of the Sherburne and Renwick Formations, shale and siltstone laid down when the land was covered in warm Devonian seas. The cliffs themselves stand like watchmen over time, protecting 4,000 feet of lakeshore from erosion, whispering tales older than mammals.

A side trail leads to this mowed meadow and Cayuga Lake overlook

On the meadow edge is this Carya ovata, or shagbark hickory, unmistakable from its elongated leaflets and distinctive bark that peeled in long, curled strips. The leaves shimmered in the breeze, their green etched with pale speckles of recent rain, as if nature herself had hand-painted them.

Shagbark Hickory on the edge of meadow.
Leaves of the Shagbark Hickory
Shagbark Hickory bark / trunk

I follow the yellow-blazed trail into a thicket where tall sugar maples—Acer saccharum—arched overhead. Their leaves caught the morning light, each palm-sized blade glowing like a shard of stained glass.



Throughout the preserve I find large holes like these in a pine tree snag, the work of a Pileated Woodpecker.

A sudden fluting note from the trees stops me in my tracks. “Ee-oh-lay,” the Wood Thrush sang, its call cascading through the forest like water over stone. Moments later, the rapid, accelerating trill of an Ovenbird joins in—a sound like “teacher-teacher-teacher” echoing from the understory. The forest is alive.

Watch on YouTube for the best experience.

I descend into the shade. A narrow stream runs over the flat gray ledges of the Ludlowville Formation, forming delicate waterfalls no taller than a man but intricate as lace. One fall, framed by a colonnade of black cherry and beech trees, poured over stone like a ribbon of silk. The water’s voice changed with each ledge—first a murmur, then a chuckle, then quiet confidence as it wound through the woods.

Here, a Scarlet Tanager flashes like flame through the canopy, its red feathers shocking against the sea of green. Above, the Eastern Wood-Pewee calles its own name from a high perch—“pee-a-wee”—a humble herald of summer. Lower down, a Tufted Titmouse flits from branch to branch, a gray blur with a whistle like curiosity incarnate.

Further along, a looping vine coils around a pair of trees like an ancient signature. Possibly a native bittersweet, its woody stem thick as a child’s arm. It reminds me of how all life here is entangled—flora, fauna, stone, and stream woven into one vast web.

I pause at the overlook, where the trail skirts the cliffs. From this height, the view opened to Cayuga Lake, vast and gleaming in the morning light. Across the water, the hills of the western shore softened into a watercolor horizon.

Crowbar Point on the west lake shore is visible, partially hidden by trees. Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs, Finger Lakes Land Trust on a May morning 2025, Lansing, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region

On the walk back, a robin sings its measured phrases from a nearby hawthorn, and I think how common birds often hold the deepest solace. The robin’s voice rises above the silence, not grand, not rare, but reassuring in its familiarity—like a good friend’s greeting.

A shale ledge, Renwick Formation (?)

I leave the preserve changed gently, like the soft indent of a footstep in moss. The Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs is a place that reminds you to listen. To the birds, to the trees, to your own breath. And in listening, you remember what it means to be wholly present in the world.

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On The Edge of Time Above Taughannock Gorge

Perched above Taughannock Gorge, a moss-covered ledge and cascading falls reveal ancient stories—where Devonian seas once flowed and time’s layers whisper through stone and water.

MichaelStephenWills5 Comments

The morning sun had only just breached the rim of the gorge, sending long slants of golden light across the forest floor. Walking the South Rim Trail of Taughannock Falls State Park, I came upon a quiet, unassuming spot—just a few paces off the path—where the forest seemed to pause in reverence. What greeted me was a small marvel of persistence and time.

There, rooted precariously atop a slab of brittle shale, was a tenacious shrub rising from a bed of moss, its spindly frame etched in sharp contrast to the soft, green sprawl beneath it. The moss had taken hold on a shelf of rock cantilevered over the gorge like a green tongue of earth defying gravity. Cracks traced the shale’s surface like veins, silent records of the forces that shaped this place—heat, ice, pressure, time. Together, the moss and the bush formed an improbable community, surviving against odds, bound together by the thin soil cradled in stone.

This ledge, suspended over the abyss, seemed less a part of the earth than a question it asked—how much life can cling to the edge before the edge itself gives way?

Beneath this living fragment, the gorge dropped away. Layers upon layers of shale revealed themselves, stacked like a collapsed library of time. Here, the Devonian Period lies exposed to wind and rain, and to those willing to pause and wonder. Each stratum holds the fossil whisper of ancient seas, where trilobites scuttled and coral reefs once stood. This gorge was not carved quickly. It was not born of a moment, but of many—countless raindrops, millennia of ice melt, the slow, sure work of water over stone.

From this natural balcony, I looked out and down to the gorge floor where the creek shaped the land with an artist’s patient hand. The falls, seen from above, no longer thundered—they danced. Spread like the folds of a fan, water curled over smooth stone in steps of white silk. From here, the cascade looked deliberate, choreographed—an elemental performance halfway between gravity and grace.

How many times had this water flowed, reshaped, receded? How often had it carved these grooves, smoothed those ridges, erased the footprints of what came before? Looking at the exposed rock, one could trace the signature of ancient glaciers, feel the memory of long-gone floods. It was humbling—this intersection of change and continuity.

Above it all, the trees stood still. Pine and oak, rooted well back from the edge, offered a kind of sentinel presence. Their shadows stretched long and angled, tracing the contours of both earth and memory. For a moment, I let go of all thought and simply listened—to the murmur of wind through leaves, the faint rush of water far below, and the silence that presses in when the land itself seems to be remembering.

This spot—so easily missed by a hurried hiker—offered a parable of resilience and impermanence. The moss did not grow with certainty, nor the shrub reach with confidence. They survived on the edge because they adapted. They made do with less. They took root where others could not. There was no security in that place, only presence. Only the now.

And isn’t that a lesson worth carrying?

We so often seek stability, firm ground, a clear path. Yet, some of the most beautiful things live just beyond comfort—on ledges, in cracks, in the margins of the known. To pause here was to acknowledge that life thrives not only in sheltered valleys but also at the edge of what seems possible.

As I stepped back onto the trail and continued along the South Rim, the image of that mossy outcrop stayed with me. I carried it in my thoughts like a talisman—proof that even on the brink, life finds a way. And that from above, the most chaotic falls can appear as ordered motion, as a flow toward something larger.

Later, when the sun climbed higher and the light lost its slant, I would look back on this moment not as a spectacular highlight but as something more intimate: a quiet encounter with nature’s subtle artistry, its layered truths, and its enduring invitation to look closely, feel deeply, and walk softly.

For here, above the gorge, at the edge of earth and time, even a whisper leaves a mark.

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Discovering Stillness in Nature’s Embrace

A bench beside a cedar, unchanged through time, stirred memory and gratitude—reminding me that some places wait quietly, holding space until we find them again.

MichaelStephenWills13 Comments

A lingering memory hovers over this spot. The soft crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the filtered light through pine and oak, the scent of warm stone and moss—all of it felt at once familiar and distant, like a half-remembered tune that returns in full when you hear the first few notes. I hadn’t thought about the simple bench until I turned the bend this summer day on the South Rim Trail.

It was still there. The same humble bench nestled beside a cedar, its weathered frame now bearing the patina of years. The tree remained slightly bowed as if in silent conversation with the bench it had embraced.. The space between them, still and shaded, seemed to invite reflection without demanding it.

Welcome Summertime Shade

I sat down, letting the moment settle around me. In the gorge below, water moved quietly through sculpted shale, the same layered gray that once caught my attention through a camera lens long packed away. From this overlook, the view had scarcely changed: stone and water, green clinging to cliff, sky rolling in above it all. My photograph captures it now just as it might have then—perhaps from the same angle. The gorge unfolding in a graceful arc, with trees perched impossibly along the sheer face.

It struck me, not as a grand revelation but with quiet certainty, that very few places in life offer such stillness. So much shifts in the world—landscapes erode, trails are rerouted, lives move forward. Yet here I was again, sitting in the same spot, as though the intervening decades had folded in on themselves.

The Why for the Bench

Back then, I had rested here out of curiosity, pausing to take in the view, enjoy a respite. Now, I sat with a deeper kind of stillness. The second photograph holds the space as I found it—quiet, dappled with shadow, edges softened by time. The fence beyond it remains, unchanged, a modest boundary between the trail and the deep gorge beyond.

I don’t remember what thoughts filled my mind that first time. But today, a kind of gentle gratitude rose instead. Gratitude for the bench, yes—but also for the path that led me here again, for the act of remembering, and for the rare gift of finding something familiar, something steady.

Left Behind or an Offering?

A final image frames just the bench, its surface worn smooth, its structure slightly leaning now. A single flower petal had fallen on the wood—a quiet grace note in the morning light. I stood and took that last photo as a way of holding the moment, though I knew no picture could fully capture what it meant to find something that had waited without fanfare.

As I turned and walked back along the rim, I felt lighter. Not because time had reversed or been conquered, but because it had been witnessed—and somehow, that was enough.

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Inishmore Landscape

Dún Aonghasa Elegy

High above the Atlantic on Inishmore, Dun Aonghasa Elegy reflects on sky, stone, and memory in a timeless Irish landscape shaped by wind and will.

MichaelStephenWills6 Comments

From the commanding location of Dún Aonghasa, looking northeast across Inishmore, the logic of the ancients becomes clear. No better vantage could be found—land unfurling like a hand toward Galway Bay, cottages nestled in green folds, clouds billowing above like sails caught mid-journey. A place of presence. A place of permanence.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands

Inishmore Landscape

Perched high on the cliff’s edge, the fort behind, the Atlantic at the back, the wind carried stories—unwritten, unspoken, but felt in the bones. Below, stone walls divided the island into patterns of memory. Fields outlined in rock, laid long ago by hands familiar with hardship and patience. The sea’s pulse echoed faintly in the distance, as steady and unfathomable as time itself.

No words were needed in that moment. Just the hush of sky and stone. Cottages, bleached bright by limewash—kalsomine, the old name still whispered by some—stood resilient against the elements, each one a witness to generations. Each one seemed to carry a personal reverence, a tenderness carved into the landscape.

Paths led gently inland, where wind slowed and voices from distant homes rose faintly through the open air. Along those paths, the rhythm of island life could be read in hoof prints, scattered wool, and the sharp, clean edges of hand-cut stone. There, among the hedges of limestone and wild grass, the living and the lost felt close.

The cloud cover shifted constantly. Shadows passed like thoughts across the land. Toward the shore, the sky opened wide. A silence filled the lungs, as bracing and deep as the Atlantic itself. Time seemed to slow, the mind slipping into the rhythm of the land.

Limestone pavement, rough beneath the boots, told its own tale of erosion and survival. That the earth here could sustain even the most modest farming seemed improbable. Yet here it was: a testament to stubborn hope and quiet ingenuity. In that quiet, ancient energy rose—something older than the fort, older than language. A pulse shared with the rock and wind.

The fort eventually came back into view—perched as if grown from the cliff itself, curved walls enclosing nothing but air and sky. I perceived no defensive bluster, only presence. And what a view it commanded. On days like this, the clouds formed towering cathedrals overhead, white and gold in the sun. Below, the cottages and fields seemed miniature, perfect, enduring.

The wind played echoes of prayer, lullaby, and laughter mingled with the call of seabirds. The thought came that nothing here was ever truly lost—only layered. Generation upon generation, each leaving some trace: a stone placed just so, a wall mended one final time, a cottage roof patched for another winter.

Here, even the air speaks. It moves gently but insistently, brushing the cheeks and stirring something ancient within the chest. Beneath it, the island breathes: not loudly, not urgently, but with the slow, deep rhythm of the tides.

As the sun dipped slightly westward, light changed across the fields, cottages glowing warm against darkening green. The wind softened. The clouds drifted, still massive but no longer looming. Time to return. A glance back offered one last communion with sky, stone, and silence.

Inishmore, on that day had been absorbed. Understood not with the mind, but with something quieter. Something that listens without need for words.

Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

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A Whitewashed Memory on Inishmore

I reflect on traditional Aran cottages while journeying to Dún Aonghasa, emphasizing the beauty of simplicity and lasting memories.

MichaelStephenWills27 Comments

It was the kind of overcast morning that seems to cradle the island in a blanket of mist, a gentle hush falling over the land as though even the Atlantic held its breath. Pam and I had arrived by ferry at Kilronan, the main settlement on Inishmore (Inis Mór), the largest of the Aran Islands nestled in Galway Bay. There, amid the bustle of arrivals and greetings, we found our driver—a wiry, weather-worn man with a soft brogue and kind eyes—and his horse trap, a simple two-wheeled carriage with room enough for three and the sounds of hooves to accompany our journey.

We set out up Cottage Road, the stone-paved track winding westward from the harbor. The sea fell away behind us as we climbed, a gray shimmer stretching to the hazy outline of Connemara’s mountains on the far side of the bay. Our destination was the dramatic cliffside ringfort of Dún Aonghasa, a place older than memory. But it was the unexpected moments in between—the ones not printed in guidebooks—that linger longest in the mind.

As we rounded a bend flanked by low stone walls, wildflowers blooming defiantly in the cracks, our driver pulled the reins gently and pointed with his crop.

“There,” he said, nodding ahead, “is a fine example of a traditional Aran cottage.”

And there it was—a vision from another time. The thatched roof curved softly like a that blanket itself, straw golden against the brooding sky. The walls were whitewashed to a perfect matte sheen, gleaming in spite of the cloud cover. A crimson door and two window frames punctuated the front façade like punctuation in a poem. Just to its right, set further back on the hill, stood a tiny replica of the same cottage, identical in every feature. I blinked, half believing it was an illusion.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands
This thatched cottage with matching child’s playhouse is on Cottage Road out of Kilronan Village on the Aran island, Inishmore, County Galway, Ireland.

We only stopped briefly—it was a private residence—but the sight of it left a kind of imprint. I turned in the trap seat to keep it in view as long as I could. The cottage was perfectly placed, facing Galway Bay with a commanding view. I imagined the light pouring across the line of mountains, catching the glint of sea and sky.

“There’s a name for that finish,” I said, recalling something I’d read, “whitewash, or lime paint.”

Our driver nodded. “That’s the old way. Made from slaked lime. We’d call it ‘whitening’ when I was a lad.”

Whitewash differs from paint in the most elemental of ways. It becomes part of the stone, absorbed into the very surface. Like a memory of bone. And yet, it requires care. Apply it to a wall not properly cleaned or moistened, and it flakes, pulls away like a broken promise. But done right, it lasts, breathes with the building.

Upon our return, researching “whitewash,” if found this photograph from the Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia. There, on a shelf, where three old boxes sat like relics: DURABLO, WESCO, and CALCIMO. All contained kalsomine—the powdered form of lime paint. CALCIMO promised to “beautify walls and ceilings” and was proudly marked “LIME PROOF.” There was something quietly heroic in that. Lime-proof, as though against time itself.

Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia Kalsomine, wall ceiling plaster powder. Source: Wikipedia article on White Wash. Author: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Gnangarra

Looking at the box of Calcimo, a product of the Murabo Company of Australia, I was struck by how far the tradition had traveled. From island cottages in the Atlantic to distant corners of the Southern Hemisphere, the language of whitewash—of simplicity and purity—had touched the world.

We returned by the same road, past that same cottage, the small one still keeping watch beside it like a child beside a parent. And I knew then that the islands hadn’t just given me sights—they had offered stories, silent ones written in thatch and stone, in lime and wind.

Sources for this post: search wikipedia for “White Wash”. White wash photo author: Wikipedia commons user Gnangarra

Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

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A Visit from Rose-Breasted Grosbeaks

On a serene May morning, a small flock of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks graced the author’s yard, showcasing their vibrant plumage and bringing beauty to the tranquil scene of nature.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments


It was a gentle May morning, the kind that seems to hush even the wind, as though nature were holding its breath for something wonderful. Through the kitchen window, just past the black iron gate entwined with the fresh green of climbing rose, I spotted them—feathered heralds of spring’s deepening promise—perched like jeweled notes on a musical staff.


The Rose-breasted Grosbeaks had arrived.

May 3, 2025 Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Not one or two, but a small flock, draped in raindrops, feathered in contrast and charm. They gathered around our backyard feeder like guests invited to a familiar table. At 5:56 a.m., the camera captured the first image: two males on the feeder and one each on fence and chair, a bold bib of crimson splashed across snowy chests, huddled against the gray of the feeder, their plumage brilliant even in the diffused dawn light. I couldn’t help but smile. This was a scene of quiet splendor, a symphony for the eyes and soul.


The males, unmistakable in their attire, wore tuxedos of black and white, with the defining rose-red marking on the breast that gives the species its common name. Their scientific name, Pheucticus ludovicianus, is less poetic but equally telling. “Pheucticus” comes from the Greek pheuktikos, meaning “shy” or “avoiding,” reflecting their reclusive habits in forested nesting grounds. “Ludovicianus” refers to Louisiana, an early French colonial name for a vast region including their breeding range—a nod to their North American roots.


At 5:58 a.m., the lens captured more details: a male with slightly mottled wing feathers, suggesting he was a younger bird, still dressing up in adult finery. The trio clung to the feeder’s edge, their heavy, conical beaks—perfect for cracking seeds—clearly visible. That oversized bill gives them the name “grosbeak,” from the French gros bec, literally “large beak.” Functional beauty, you might say.

May 3, 2025 Three of the Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Then, at 6:08 a.m., came the contrast—the female. Subtly adorned in warm browns, with creamy streaks and a wash of yellow near the wings, she perched beside her flamboyant mate, as if to say: elegance need not shout. The two birds looked momentarily toward each other, and I was struck by their balance—his flair and her grace. Her eyebrow stripe, called a supercilium, lent her a composed, alert expression. While the male might catch the eye, the female commands attention in her own, quieter way.

May 3, 2025 Male and Female Rose Breasted Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are migratory, long-distance travelers who winter in Central and South America and return each spring to North America’s deciduous and mixed woodlands to breed. Here in upstate New York, our yard is a brief rest stop on their northward journey—or, if I’m lucky, a summer home. They often nest in dense foliage, and their song, a melodic, whistled warble—like a robin who’s taken voice lessons—is often the first clue to their presence.


This morning, no song was needed. Their silent presence was enough.


Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. The wet fence and chair under the feeder, even the crumpled leaf bag—everything was blessed by the company of these birds. Rain softened the world, and the birds brought color to its hush.


Later that day, reviewing the photos with metadata timestamps from my iPhone—each image like a verse in a poem—I marveled at what I had witnessed. These weren’t just birds. They were stories in flight, living punctuation marks in the sentence of my morning.


Nature gives us these moments, brief as birdsong and just as sweet. You only have to be still, and ready to receive them.

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References

  1. Pheucticus ludovicianus (Rose-breasted Grosbeak). Cornell Lab of Ornithology – All About Birds.
  2. Jobling, James A. The Helm Dictionary of Scientific Bird Names. London: Christopher Helm, 2010.
  3. Merriam-Webster Dictionary: Etymology of “Grosbeak.”
  4. iPhone 14 Pro Max image metadata (May 3, 2025; 5:56 a.m. to 6:08 a.m.; Ithaca, NY).