Tag: Dam Pond

Maple Leaves and Us

The maple leaf is here portrayed as a symbol of life’s journey, intricacy, and impermanence, offering profound reflections on existence and human aspiration.

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The maple leaf, a symbol cast from the arboreal giants that stand sentinel over the forests of the North, is an emblem woven into the very fabric of the natural world and the ethos of nations. In the hush of the woodland, where light dapples through the canopy, one might find the ground strewn with these deciduous gems, each a small testament to the grandeur of the cosmos and the cyclical poetry of life.

A maple leaf is an allegory for the human condition. The leaf, in its singular form, is a paragon of symmetry, its serrated edges a crown of nature’s meticulous artisanship. The veins that stretch across its surface, much like the lines upon an aged hand, speak of life’s intricate network, the invisible bonds that connect and sustain us. Each leaf, a verdant vessel, courses with the sap of existence, a lifeblood shared in the quiet brotherhood of the forest.

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Yet, as the seasons wheel from the halcyon days of summer to the mellowing glow of autumn, the maple leaf undergoes a transformation as profound as any in the human soul. It becomes a canvas upon which the twilight of the year is painted. Scarlet, amber, and gold – these are the hues of the leaf’s maturation, a visual sonnet to the passage of time. Mann may have mused on this metamorphosis, the leaf becoming an artifact of beauty at the very precipice of its own demise, a reflection on the bittersweet nature of all earthly endeavors.

Philosophically, the maple leaf’s journey from bud to decay is a microcosm of existence itself. In spring, it burgeons forth from the stark limbs of its parent tree, a symbol of rebirth and the perennial hope that accompanies new beginnings. In its zenith, it offers shelter and sustenance, an unheralded giver of life. But as it yields to the inevitable fall, swirling in the autumn winds to its rest upon the soft earth, it evokes a meditation on the impermanence of all things. The leaf, once the very emblem of vitality, now melds with the soil in quietus, a return to the elemental from which it sprung.

The maple leaf, then, is not merely an object of transient beauty, nor simply a token of the land it hails from. It is a narrative, a silent orator of the eternal truths that bind the soul of the artist to the canvas of the universe. It is a vessel for the musings of poets and philosophers, a simple yet profound cipher for the myriad complexities of existence.

I find maple leaves imbued with a weight of existential significance: its simple, pleasing shape a metaphor for the human aspiration towards beauty and the poignant inevitability of its corruption. For in the visage of the leaf, one might glimpse the duality of passion – the longing for the sublime, coupled inexorably with the sorrow of its fleeting grasp. Thus, the maple leaf, in its silent splendor, becomes a memento mori, a delicate reminder of the rapturous agony of life and the solemn peace of death.

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Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Fungal…

Shelf fungi, known for their ecological role and unique physical features, hold significant cultural and practical importance in Native American traditions, medicine and art.

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Overview

Shelf fungus, also known as bracket fungus, comprises various species of polypore mushrooms that grow on trees, logs, or branches, forming shelf-like structures. These fungi are integral to forest ecosystems, functioning as decomposers that break down the cellulose and lignin in wood, facilitating nutrient cycling. They possess a hard, woody basidiocarp — the fruiting body — which can persist for years. The spore-producing surface is typically on the underside, featuring numerous tiny pores where spores are released. Shelf fungi are diverse, with species ranging from saprophytic to parasitic, some contributing to tree diseases like heart rot.

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Poetically Fungal

Shelf fungi captivate me with their silent tenacity, perched like wooden sentinels on forest guardians. Their presence is a reminder of nature’s cycles, breaking down the old to nourish the new. Each time I spy their intricate layers and earthy hues, I’m reminded of life’s layered complexities. They are nature’s artists, painting decay with a purposeful brush, turning fallen timber into rich soil. To me, they symbolize resilience, a testament to thriving in place, despite the odds. In their quiet existence, they echo the beauty of transformation, an emblem of life’s perpetual motion within the stillness of the woods.

Natively Fungal

The relationship between Native Americans and shelf fungi is rooted in a profound understanding of the natural world, where every element has a role in the cultural and practical life of a community. Shelf fungi, with their sturdy, shelf-like projections from trees, have been an integral part of Native American tradition, utilized for both medicinal and practical purposes.

Medicinally, various tribes recognized the healing properties of certain shelf fungi. The Iroquois, for example, used bracket fungi in poultices to treat wounds and swelling. Other tribes found uses for shelf fungi as anti-inflammatory agents or as a means to stop bleeding, embracing the fungi’s natural anticoagulant properties.

In everyday life, the unique physical properties of shelf fungi lent themselves to multiple uses. The Piptoporus betulinus, commonly known as the birch polypore, was carried by the Otzi the Iceman, a natural mummy dating back to over 5,000 years ago, likely for its antiseptic properties and as a means to carry embers due to its ability to smolder without flame. This hints at a broader prehistoric and indigenous use of fungi for fire carrying.

The tinder fungus, a type of shelf fungus, was particularly valued for its ability to hold a flame. Native Americans often used this fungus to transport fire between camps. They would hollow out a section of the fungus, fill it with hot embers, and cover it to create a portable and long-lasting source of fire. This was an essential technology for survival, especially during long treks or in adverse weather conditions.

Moreover, the Ganoderma species, commonly referred to as the Artist’s Conk, served as a canvas for art. These fungi have a white pore surface that darkens when touched. Native American artists utilized this characteristic to etch drawings and messages, turning these fungi into storytelling and communicative tools.

The profound connection between Native Americans and shelf fungi illustrates a deep ecological wisdom where even a simple fungus is interwoven into the fabric of cultural and survival practices. This symbiosis underscores the importance of every organism within an ecosystem, a lesson that resonates with contemporary efforts to understand and preserve our natural world.

Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Right Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Dam Pond

Fillmore Glen Autumn

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As the season of harvest waned to the deep, fiery heart of November, I found myself beneath the boundless expanse of heaven’s azure, wandering the untouched expanses of the wilds. The sun, in its unwavering journey, cast its gaze upon the earth, illuminating the realm with a clarity that seemed to transcend the ages. It was upon such an afternoon that mine eyes beheld a vision of yesteryear’s industry, a relic from a time long since passed into the annals of history—an ancient dam and pond, nestled in the forest.

The water, a mirror to the sky, held within its embrace the autumnal celebration of the maples. Leaves, flames of red and gold, lay scattered upon the surface, drifting languidly atop the pond. Amongst this mosaic of nature’s final flourish, green tendrils of algae weaved patterns, as though the very spirits of the forest sought to lay claim to the waters with their verdant touch.

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The trees, mighty sentinels of maple, stood in grandeur around the pond, their boughs heavy with the weight of the season. Their leaves, caught in the throes of change, were painted with the brilliant hues of yellow and red, a testament to the time when the earth itself becomes an artist of unrivaled skill.

And there, frozen in the midst of this tranquil domain, stood the gears of the mill race, once alive with industry’s hum, now silent and immobile. They reached towards the heavens, their shadows etched upon the pond below, as if in a final, defiant stand against the passage of time.

Such a sight, in the clear, sunny afternoon of this November day in the year 2511, spoke to me of the enduring dance between man’s creations and the relentless, reclaiming hand of nature. It was a scene that stirred within me a profound reverence, a sense of communion with the generations that had walked these woods before. Here, in this hallowed place, time seemed to pause, allowing me a moment of solemn reflection in the ceaseless flow of eternity.

Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Right Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Golden Paths…

Fillmore Glen Autumn

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Within Fillmore Glen, as autumn unfurls its vibrant tapestry, there lies a path that seems to exist between the pages of an unwritten folklore. It is a trail not marked for travel, bearing a solitary sign, “Not a trail. Do not enter,” which stands like a silent sentinel amidst the riot of colors. Yet, the path stretches on, an irresistible lure, a golden ribbon that meanders through the heart of the wood, carpeted with leaves that have taken their final, graceful descent to create a mosaic of reds, oranges, and yellows.

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The path is a secret thoroughfare, known only to the whispering trees and the shy creatures that watch from the underbrush. The air here is thick with the scent of damp earth and the musk of decay that heralds the deepening of autumn. It is a place out of time, where the distant sound of falling water is a constant undertone, a reminder of the unseen river that carves its way through the glen, its voice rising and falling with the wind.

The leaves that blanket the path rustle with the passage of unseen feet—perhaps the fox, or the silent owl that hunts at twilight. The golden footpaths are corridors of light, as the sun filters through the thinning canopy, casting long shadows and illuminating patches of the forest floor with a warm, amber glow.

Here, one’s footsteps become a part of the glen’s own rhythm, a soft tread upon the sacred ground. The sign’s warning goes unheeded by the whispering woods, which seem to beckon with a voice as old as the hills, inviting the soul to wander and to wonder. In Fillmore Glen, the path is not just a physical journey but a passage through the soul of autumn itself, a dance with the ephemeral, a fleeting embrace of the golden, transient beauty of the fall. It is not merely a place to walk; it is a path to feel, to breathe, to exist in harmony with the quiet pulse of the earth.

Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Right Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Woodland Shelters…

Here we have the harmony between humans and nature, represented through woodland shelters like lean-tos and birdhouses. It portrays these shelters as spaces of coexistence, mutualistic masterpieces blending function, form, and aesthetic in nature.

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…on the Dam Pond at Fillmore Glen.

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…vines running free.

In the dappled sanctuary of the woodlands, where the rustle of leaves is a constant whisper and the breeze carries the secrets of the earth, there lies an unspoken harmony between the realm of the rooted and the realm of the roving. Here, the art of shelter is not just necessity but poetry—a dialogue between man and nature, bird and branch, leaf and sky. It is in the woodland shelters—those humble lean-tos and the charming birdhouses—that this conversation finds its most enchanting expressions.

A lean-to, a simple structure, a slant of sanctuary against the embracing trunk of a venerable oak or the crook of a steadfast pine, rises like an ode to minimalist refuge. It is both a testament to human ingenuity and a bow to the grandeur of the forest. Constructed from the very bones of the woods, with limbs that have fallen in the last tempest’s dance, it is clad in the textures of the wild—a tapestry of bark, a patchwork of leaves. It does not impose but rather suggests, whispering, “Here, rest awhile, where the earth holds you and the canopy cradles the sky.”

Within this woodland embrace, the lean-to is the hermit’s haven, the hiker’s pause, the dreamer’s alcove. It is the place where one can commune with the murmur of the brook, the chitter of the squirrel, and the silent flight of the owl at twilight. It is here that the smoke of a small fire mingles with the mist of dawn, where stories unfold to the rhythm of the crackling embers and the forest listens.

And what of the birdhouses, those quaint dwellings that pepper the woodland tableau? They are not mere shelters but the grand stages for the aerial ballet of wings and the morning serenades of feathered minstrels. Each is a mansion of possibility, an invitation etched in wood and lovingly placed among the boughs. They are the outposts of avian dreams, where the pulse of tiny hearts beats in time with the dripping of rain and the warmth of the sun’s caress.

The birdhouse is a symbol of the generosity of the woodsman’s spirit, a gift to the skyborne, a token of respect to the delicate denizens of the firmament. Here, the chickadee, the finch, the nuthatch, and the wren find respite and nurture the next generation of sky dancers. Each hole is a portal to a home, each perch a threshold to the warmth within, and every departure and return is witnessed by the vigilant trees, the silent sentinels of the forest.

Lean-tos and birdhouses, these woodland shelters, are the chorus of the sylvan symphony, the unseen chords that bind human to habitat, life to life. They are proof that in the quiet places of the world, where humanity treads lightly and the wild holds sway, there can be a beautiful coexistence, a mutualistic masterpiece painted on the canvas of the wilderness. They stand as symbols of the beauty that arises from the marriage of function and form, purpose and aesthetic, the innate and the crafted.

In the woodland shelters, there is a rhapsody played in the key of nature—a song of simplicity, of connection, of the perpetual dance between the earth and its many children. It is here, in the lean-tos and birdhouses, that the heart of the woods beats strongest, beneath the watchful eyes of ancient trees and the endless sky.

Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved MichaelStephenWills.com