Over the years I have come to enjoy many different brews of tea.  I tend to prefer a strong black tea at breakfast, but often choose a milder-flavored, scented tea in the afternoon.  A perfumed variety is perfect with dessert. 

I don’t often have macaroons, but my son brought back a box of the “real deal” French macarons from Paris that tasted marvelous and were pretty as a picture.  I had the same trouble deciding which one to try first as I do when I open a box of chocolates. 

Macarons; Photo:DFawcett

(Check out the “true story of the Laduree macaron“ and the list of shops around the world.  Unfortunately there’s only one shop in the US — 864 Madison Avenue, New York City.  I wholeheartedly agree with Laduree’s philosophy: “We firmly believe that a weakness for sweets is a noble approach to everyday living.”)

*****

The first “exotic” tea I ever drank (exotic meaning anything other than English or Irish Breakfast, Lipton’s orange pekoe, and the fruit and spice Constant Comment) was Twinings Earl Grey.  What was that flowery scent? 

The authentic flavoring comes from the oil of the bergamot, a type of orange tree from Calabria, Italy.  The best Earl Grey teas are loose leaf and flavored with this oil.  Organic black tea leaves from the Yunnan Dian Hong province in China are hand blended with bergamot essence in small batches to maintain the flavor that is often lost in larger, mechanical processes. 

Black teas from China vary significantly depending on geography, climate, plant variety, and the technique of processing.  (Check out Rishi Tea’s Earl Grey Supreme made from the Yunnan Dian Hong province leaves and the first-pressed natural oil of the bergamot fruit.  Rishi’s teas are organic and fair trade certified.  The Tao of Tea also offers an organic Earl Grey with the natural bergamot essence.)

Once I discovered bergamot I planted the herb variety (orange/bergamot mint) in my garden.  A few leaves added to hot or iced tea provide a hint of the citrus flavor.  The leaves fresh or dried are also good in fruit salads or to add flavor to chicken or pork dishes.  Bergamot grows well in a pot and will spread easily when planted in the garden.  It is also perennial and comes back more robust every spring.

Bergamot/orange mint; Photo:KFawcett

 I developed the British tradition of afternoon tea years ago when I worked for an international organization where few people took morning coffee breaks, but almost everyone took an afternoon break for tea.  This is still one of my favorite times of day, though I rarely have tea with crumpets or macarons.  Chocolates will do in a pinch.  Or chocolate chip cookies.  Or croissants.  Or…

**********

I grew up sleeping under quilts my mom had made by hand.  I was not an anomaly — at least not so far as quilts were concerned.  Every kid I knew had moms or grandmothers or aunts who pieced quilts.  And we needed a bunch.  Our house was heated only by a coal stove and a fireplace and the fires were banked at night, so it got chilly.  (Banking a fire is simply — though not so simply done — adding just the right amount of burnt-out embers to cover and put out the flames so the fire simmers beneath, but does not flame until new wood or coal is added.)

My mom stitched quilts by hand and on her Singer sewing machine, which now sits in my foyer.  Most of my clothes were made on this machine and it sat in the back of our store so Mom could alternate between helping customers and sewing dresses.  The store was next door to our house, so she was a “working” mom, a “stay-at-home” mom, a seamstress, cook, and gardener.  And so much more.  She had enormous patience, a solid faith, and wisdom that seemed to come naturally.  I celebrate Mother’s Day this year with a few of my favorite quilts.  

Mom pieced this Flower Garden for me when I got married. 

Flower Garden quilt; Photo:KFawcett

The Lone Star quilt is supposed to be one star, but for some reason my mom thought one star alone was bad luck.  So she designed this one — the Lone Star with friends.  She treated patterns and recipes as “suggestions” and wasn’t afraid to do things her own way.  She passed this trait on to her children, as well.  My brother, sister, and I tend to read the directions (sometimes) and then put our own spin on life.  

Quilt of Stars; Photo:KFawcett

Every year, after my dad died, my mom spent several weeks in the summers with us and visited again at Christmastime.  We always went to the fabric stores and bought yards of material, which she cut into pieces for quilts.  She often went back to Kentucky after these visits with quilt squares in her suitcase to finish at home.  The Dutch Girl is another favorite.

Dutch Girl quilt; Photo:KFawcett

The dogwood quilt is simply made of squares and tacked with white embroidery thread.  It’s the material that makes the difference.  I love the dogwood blooms in spring and have two trees in our back yard.  In Kentucky they grow wild all over the hills surrounding the house where I grew up.  So I wanted a blooming quilt and Mom made this one.

Dogwood quilt; Photo:KFawcett

This may be a one-of-a-kind!  The United Colors of Benetton quilt was the result of my mom finding a large piece of fabric cheap and knowing the ease with which it could be turned into a quilt.  She had seen the fabric with the flags and knew that I loved to travel and often talked about “other countries” so she bought the bolt of material and went to work.  The great thing about this quilt is that it’s unusually warm.  Instead of a layer of batting for the “stuffing,” she used a thick blanket. 

United Colors of Benetton quilt; Photo:KFawcett

There are so many others — lots of simple squares big and small, another flower garden in all pink and green, and two very fun quilts, each made from single swaths of material, which she stitched for our son.  One is all about cats and the other has dolphins swimming in a blue-green sea.  But my favorite is a quilt my son designed and my mom patched.  They called it Crazy Eights (there is an actual pattern with this name, but it’s not the same), and he chose to have the Eights set up on a bright green background. 

Crazy Eights; Photo:KFawcett

Almost every day something reminds me of my mom — the spring flowers in bloom, an old gospel song that gets stuck in my head, a sudden chill that has me looking for an extra quilt to put on the bed.  In Appalachia quilts were never made just to keep you warm; they were also a way to send love down through the generations.  I feel very fortunate to have a whole bunch in my house. 

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!

Snowball Vibernum; Photo:KFawcett

My snowball “bush” is a 15-foot tree!  There are a number of different types of vibernum bushes that produce “snowball” flowers and this one is almost 20 years old, so I’m not sure about the species.  The best match I can find in my searches is the Chinese Snowball Vibernum.  In any case, it’s my favorite plant on the premises.  I grew up with a snowball bush in our yard and was excited when I bought this one.  I never imagined, however, that it would grow to monster proportions.  We planted it in the empty hole where a scrub pine had uprooted and fallen over in a storm.  Perhaps all that good natural mulch had something to do with it. 

Snowball Vibernum; Photo:KFawcett

I grew up with the smell of fresh fruits and vegetables.  Corn just picked and shucked.  Red, ripe tomatoes.  The raw, green scent of beans dangling on the vine.  We had a big garden and it was a lot of work.  Dirty, sweaty, exhausting work.  I could always think of a million things I’d rather be doing. But I soon discovered that nothing in a produce bin tastes as good as its just-picked cousin.

Every spring I look forward to shopping at the farmer’s markets.  It’s not the same as walking down the lane a bit and picking the corn right off the stalk, but an old farmer who frequents one of my local markets has amazingly sweet, fresh corn every Friday morning in the summer and the blackberries taste as good as the ones that came with chiggers when I was growing up.

When I travel I also like to visit the local markets.  It’s a great way to get a feel for the city or town or village and experience its colors and smells.  I like the voices heard above the noise, no matter the language.  “You gotta taste this!”  Someone always offers a few berries or a slice of watermelon that’s hard to resist:  “Have you ever seen a riper melon?”  And there are baskets of tomatoes, zuchini, eggplant.  Broad beans and broccoli.  Batches of basil and mint and oregano.  Cut flowers and potted plants.  And some of the most colorful markets have everything from strange fruits and artwork and woven rugs to pigs and chickens and goats.  Exotic gifts and local doo-dads.  It’s all good.

Four of my favorite markets –

San Rafael de Heredia, Costa Rica   This market is in one of the prettiest natural settings of any I have ever visited.

Farmer’s Market, San Rafael de Heredia, Costa Rica; Photo:KFawcett

The town of San Rafael is surrounded by stunning scenery — rolling green hills and valleys, rainforests and volcanoes.  Heredia is an agricultural province only 20 minutes from San Jose, but it’s a world away from the busy capital city.  The market is filled with a rainbow of tropical fruits.  Some are more common as they are exported to the US, such as bananas, pineapples, and papayas, but others are harder to come by outside the tropics.  The strange, heart-shaped anona with its milk-white pulp and rosewater flavor was once described by Mark Twain as “deliciousness itself.”  Vendors sell hearts of palm and sugarcane and the reddest strawberries imaginable.  And there are baskets of caimitos, which are similar to star fruits and taste like mangosteens; cashew fruit is soft and juicy with its kidney-shaped nut attached at the lower end; and granadilla (a type of passion fruit) is almost liquid when ripe and is best eaten with a spoon.  The weather here is always warm, but every season brings special offerings – guanabana and guava, loquat and sapodilla, pejibaye and rambutan and zapote.  The mombin is like a plum but not a plum.  It really doesn’t taste like anything else.  Both juicy and spicy, the mombin grows wild in the forest.

A band plays at the local market, San Rafael de Heredia, Costa Rica; Photo:KFawcett

There’s music in the market, too.  Lots of smiles and laughter and a real sense of community.  The local landmark is a gorgeous Gothic church that sits just beyond the market stalls, and the surrounding cloud forest is home to some of Costa Rica’s largest coffee farms.

**********

San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico   El Mercado, in the historic center of town, is a magical place.  

Mercado, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett

Fruits and vegetables are plentiful at the market and in every color, size, and variety.  But my favorite stalls have wonderful handmade rugs and blankets and a variety of trinkets — masks and metal stars, silver mirrors and milagros.  Thousands of milagros (“miracles”/votives, religious folk charms) are available to fit every occasion for celebration or offering.

Folk Art, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett

Mercado, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett

San Miguel’s vendors also sell hot tortillas and baskets of herbs and big bundles of fresh cut flowers with perfect blooms –  and cajeta, those great little caramel candies that you have to eat right on the spot. 

(For some nice pics and more info, check out Martha Stewart’s “El Mercado in San Miguel de Allende“)

**********

The Otavalo market in Imbabura Province in Ecuador is one of the largest markets of its kind in Latin America.  I like everything that makes this market distinctly Ecuadorian.  The vendors are almost exclusively indigenous people who come from the surrounding villages to sell their wares in the market square. 

Otavalo Market, Imbubura, Ecuador; Photo:KFawcet

It’s all about atmosphere here.  The men and women wear traditional dress, the men in white pants  and dark ponchos, the women in dark skirts and beautiful embroidered blouses with flared lace sleeves.  Everyone wears a hat.  At a distance Poncho Plaza on a Saturday morning can look like a sea of fedoras!  Otavalo is famous for its textiles and some of the best weavers in Latin America come from nearby Iluman and Agato and Peguche, but the surrounding villages are also known for other handicrafts — Cotacachi for leather, San Antonio for wood carvings — and there are pan pipe makers and others who carve tagua nut jewelry or embroider tablecloths and clothing.  A live animal market sells cows and chickens and guinea pigs (a delicacy in these parts) and vegetable stands offer a multitude of grains grown in the Andes and more kinds of potatoes than you could sample if you ate potatoes at every meal for a week.

Textiles, Otavalo, Ecuador; Photo:MFawcett

Ludmila spins the yarn and her husband Tomas is the weaver.  Their creations depict the villages and volcanoes, the people and their customs.  The colorful bag hanging on the wall behind her has been my sturdy travel and beach duffel for more than a decade and it’s still fit to travel.

**********

Eastern Market is Washington, DC’s oldest continually operated fresh food public market.  It’s located in the Capitol Hill neighborhood and it’s as much fun to visit and just hang out as it is to shop.  Weekends are best, but it can be very busy, especially during the warm months.  If you want to get a crepe from the crepe maker, for example (and it’s something you shouldn’t miss), you have to get to the market well before 2 pm.

Eastern Market, Washington, DC; Photo:KFawcett

During strawberry season the scent of fresh berries fills the air.  Ditto for the basil and mint and rosemary.  Lots to look at — arts and jewelry, antiques and collectibles, T-shirts and masks, and animals made from aluminum cans.  Flowers.  Lots of flowers! I like this market’s busyness away from the usual business of DC.  It’s a great place to spend a sunny day.

 **********

Jean-Claude Izzo in an essay titled “I Am at Home Everywhere” says this: “…there is no point going anywhere else if we do not recognize ourselves in the eyes of the Other.”  Perhaps this is what I enjoy most about outdoor markets, both foreign and familiar.  The sights and sounds and feeling of community make me feel at home.

Do you have a favorite market?  What makes it special?  What’s the best thing you’ve ever seen, done, or bought at a farmer’s market?

***********************

***Jean-Claude Izzo was best known for being the founder of the modern Mediterranean noir novel, but I like best this slender book of essays about his beloved Marseilles and its food and markets: Garlic, Mint, & Sweet Basil: Essays on Marseilles, Mediterranean Cuisine, and Noir Fiction.

]]> http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/2013/05/02/four-favorite-farmers-markets/feed/ 0 ktzefr Farmer's Market, San Rafael de Heredia, Costa Rica; Photo:KFawcett A band plays at the local market, San Rafael de Heredia, Costa Rica; Photo:KFawcett Mercado, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett Folk Art, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett Mercado, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett Otavalo Market, Imbubura, Ecuador; Photo:KFawcett Textiles, Otavalo, Ecuador; Photo:MFawcett Eastern Market, Washington, DC; Photo:KFawcett IMG_0473 http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/2013/04/28/reading-companions/ http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/2013/04/28/reading-companions/#comments Sun, 28 Apr 2013 22:15:38 +0000 ktzefr http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/?p=3853 ]]> Yesterday was warm and sunny and I spent a good part of the day reading on the back porch under the maple shade.  I am used to the squirrels and rabbits and birds that visit at a distance, but I was startled to see this little guy casting his shadow on my pages.

Inchworm; Photo:KFawcett

There is a poem by the Indian writer Gokak called “The Transmigration of the Inchworm” in which the little worm is asked to measure many things as he’s very good at it —

“the beak of the pelican

the tail of the peacock,

the crown of the woodpecker,

the worn, featherless belly of the ancient owl…”

When the cuckoo asks the worm to measure his song, however, the little inchworm is stunned.  He can’t imagine how this can possibly be done and offers to measure anything else — the bird’s beak or tail or feathers.  But the cuckoo threatens to eat the worm if he doesn’t measure the bird’s song.  So the worm agrees, and then he moves as quickly as he can, inch by inch, into the forest and the trees until he vanishes without a sound. 

My inchworm pal vanished, too, with a little help from me.  I decided he’d be better off in the trees. 

*****

Read a poem, write a poem, give a poem as a gift for National Poetry Month.

Haiku masters can often say more in a handful of words than a novelist can say in three hundred.  I was thinking about this on my morning walk as I photographed the neighborhood in bloom: a haiku is like the blooming season — short and full of possibilities.  It’s a starting point for trains of thought and emotion.  The following haiku by Kikaku is one of my favorites.  It is considered Kikaku’s comment on human life.

“A tree frog, clinging

to a banana leaf–

and swinging, swinging.”

~Kikaku

(I like this image and it works in a lot of situations.  In low times simply clinging to the banana leaf can be difficult, but during high times it’s all about swinging and swinging — or dancing in the air!)

Speaking of dancing in the air…

Dogwood tree; Photo:KFawcett

Our dogwood tree is amazing.  It’s huge and old and the arborist says it’s sickly and on its last legs.  But, at least for this season, it’s doing okay.  When our son was little he called it the bow-wow tree.  When the bow-wow tree blooms we know it’s spring!

In nearly every haiku there is some word or expression that indicates the time of year.  Here are a few favorites from Basho for spring:

Spring starts:

new year; old rice,

five quarts.

(Basho kept a gourd container near the entrance to his house where his students could deposit their presents of rice.)

On the Road to Nara

“Oh, these spring days!

A nameless little mountain,

wrapped in morning haze!”

(Nara is a city of ancient temples, surrounded by famous mountains.  For a lovely piece about this part of Japan, see Pico Iyer’s “Nara: Where Japan Began”)

“From what tree’s bloom

  it comes, I do not know,

    but–this perfume!”

Last week there was something in the air that I did not recognize.  The Japonica bushes are blooming, but their scent is not that sweet or strong, so the “perfume” had to be coming from a neighbor’s yard.  I didn’t locate it in time and this week it’s gone.  However, the sun has brought out the lilacs to sweeten the air.

Lilacs; Photo:KFawcett

My lilac bush started as a twig that came all the way from Kentucky more than 20 years ago in my mother’s suitcase on a United Airlines flight.  It has adjusted quite well.

When I was growing up in Kentucky my friends and I played in a pine forest near my house.  The spring woods were always filled with voices and the scent of pine.  That image still sticks in my memory and Onitsura says it perfectly…

“How cool the breeze:

the sky is filled with voices–

pine and cedar trees.”

*****

and another Basho…

“Here on the mountain pass,

    somehow they draw one’s heart so –

      violets in the grass.”

~Basho

Wild Violets; Photo:KFawcett

These violets did not spring up on a mountain pass but rather in my front yard.  This year they are everywhere and I love them.  I can’t imagine thinking of them as weeds!

******

Thousands of haiku have been written about cherry blossoms.  The poet Buson wrote more than 2,000 poems; like the work of so many others, there are several about cherry blossoms.

“Departing spring:

with belated cherry blossoms

shilly-shallying.”

Cherry blossoms; Photo:KFawcett

This year the cherry blossom watch in DC was changed daily and the “height of bloom” date kept being delayed because of the cold weather.  Then, we suddenly had a couple of 90-degree days and they bloomed quickly and were gone.  This week, however, the Kwansan cherries are blooming and I actually like those better.  They have double pink flowers with a deeper, richer color. 

Another poem about cherry-blossom time.  This one from the poet Issa. *

“In my old home

which I forsook, the cherries

are in bloom.”

Do you recall the blooming things from the place(s) you grew up?  I doubt that many people think about the trees they’re leaving behind when they leave home.  We had a number of trees in our yard in Kentucky — a cherry that had branches in just the right spots for easy climbing, a pear tree that my dad ordered through the mail and never expected to bear fruit (it did eventually and still does), a weeping willow under which I felt perfectly hidden from the world, and a sweet gum tree with a rope swing where I sailed to the moon and beyond.   Did you leave a yard full of trees behind someplace?

*Issa was one of the best-loved of the haiku poets.  His work was not as difficult to understand nor as prophetic as Basho’s and he wasn’t considered as great a craftsman as Buson, but Issa was very human. He is said to have “opened his soul to us” in his writing. 

Shiki, too, used haiku to record any genuine emotion, no matter how ephemeral or unimportant it might seem, and was criticized for publishing a good deal of second-rate work.  Many also felt that his style was nearly impossible to retain in translation.  The following are a few favorites for their universal appeal:

On a spring road –

“Backward I gaze;

one whom I had chanced to meet

is lost in haze.”

**********

On how to spend a (perfect) spring day –

“A day of spring;

a hamlet where not anyone

is doing anything.”

**********

On reading the Manyoshu (the oldest existing collection of Japanese poetry) —

“And no one knows

who wrote it — this springtime

master-song.”

**********

And one more from Shiki –

“A long-forgotten thing:

a pot where now a flower blooms –

this day of spring!”

**********

Dogwood; Photo:KFawcett

“They blossom, and then

we gaze, and then the blooms

scatter, and then…”

~Onitsura

********************************

HAPPY SPRING!

San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett

Though Muriel Rukeyser is an American poet, she writes eloquently about Mexico.  This image from San Miguel de Allende…

“No one will ever understand that evening…

No one who has not ever seen that color

Change and travel the hills…

will ever know

The evening…filtered through cinnamon

And how the birds came down

Through the bars of yellow and the bars of green

Into the brandy dusk and the leaves of night…”

~ Muriel Rukeyser, “Evening Plaza, San Miguel”

**********

Leticia Alvarez’s image of childhood in the country in Mexico reminds me of my own childhood in Kentucky — soaring too high in a rope swing attached to a backyard tree, wearing dresses my mom made on the old Singer sewing machine, spending time outdoors with friends. 

“At Pina’s house

there was a garden with a swing

I soared too high for my age…

my dresses were made at home

by my mother and a sewing machine

our skirts flew

and I pumped harder

to clear the hedge…”

~ Leticia Herrera Alvarez (translated by Judith Infante), “Country Memory”

Girls of Santa Julia, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett

(Casa Hogar Santa Julia)

Aline Pettersson is a Mexican author who has published a number of children’s books.  I’m not sure why this poem is titled “Cuernavaca,” but I like the imagery and the way this universal need to be loved is expressed.

“There’s a deep murmur unravelled,

the air is a song of feather,

a soft babble of grass.

There’s a memory of heaven revived,

hum of life and a plea.

There’s this need, like a baby’s, to be loved.”

~Aline Pettersson, (translated by Judith Infante), “Cuernavaca”

**********

Alberto Blanco is one of Mexico’s most important poets.  In this excerpt from “The Parakeets” the reader might ask how one talks to his/her shadow or to silence.  How are we, in our separate cages, like the parakeets?

“They talk all day

and when it starts to get dark

they lower their voices

to converse with their own shadows

and with the silence…

They are like everybody,

the parakeets:

the ones that talk best

have separate cages.”

~ Alberto Blanco, “The Parakeets” (translated by W.S. Merwin)

**********

And then there is Octavio Paz who won the Nobel Prize in 1990…

Mural, Escuela de Bellas Artes, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett

“Listen to me as one listens to the rain,

not attentive, not distracted,

light footsteps, thin drizzle,

water that is air, air that is time,

the day is still leaving,

the night has yet to arrive,

figurations of mist

at the turn of the corner,

figurations of time

at the bend in this pause,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

without listening, hear what I say…”

Octavio Paz, “As One Listens to the Rain”

**********

Celebrate National Poetry Month by reading your favorites, discovering new voices, and/or buying a special collection for a friend.  If you could pass along the words of only one poet, who would you choose?  

]]> http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/2013/04/17/poets-and-pics-of-mexico/feed/ 0 ktzefr San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett Girls of Santa Julia, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett Mural, Escuela de Bellas Artes, San Miguel de Allende; Photo:KFawcett http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/2013/04/09/hot-winds-new-buds/ http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/2013/04/09/hot-winds-new-buds/#comments Tue, 09 Apr 2013 20:41:14 +0000 ktzefr http://katiepickardfawcett.wordpress.com/?p=3829 ]]> “A spring wind moves to dance

any branch that isn’t dead.”

~ Rumi

Snowball buds; Photo:KFawcett

It’s 74 degrees and heading into the 80s today!  It looks like we slid from winter right into summer, and the sun is extra bright with no shade as there are very few — and they’re tiny — leaves on the trees.

I know it’s snowing somewhere, but I’m glad we’ve been there and done that for this year.  How about you?  What’s it doing where you are?

**********

“…the white heron

  rising

    over the swamp

       and the darkness,

 his yellow eyes

  and broad wings wearing

    the light of the world…

ah yes, I see him.

  He is exactly

    the poem

      I wanted to write.

~ Mary Oliver, “White Heron Rises Over Blackwater”

**********

If I were a poet, I know a whole bunch of birds that would be “exactly the poem I wanted to write” — last spring’s new male cardinals that have turned fiery red over the winter, the hummingbirds that make the long trek south every fall and come back to my feeders in the spring, the tanagers and flycatchers and parrots I’ve seen in the islands and in that bird wonderland of Costa Rica.  And these…the snowy egrets that nest in the pecan trees in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico (see “36 Hours in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico” from today’s New York Times.

Snowy egrets; Photo:KFawcett

The egrets are pretty birds with not-so-pretty voices.  They sound mostly like ducks, but they can snort like a pig or “bark” like a pup. (Have a LISTEN.)  These birds are early risers, leaving their nests every morning for the mud flats near the lake outside of town to look for “food” amongst the tall weeds.  At night they return to the pecan trees to roost. This flock makes a lot of noise just moving about in the trees until they’re settled in for the night.  In the 19th century in the US they were hunted almost to extinction for their feathers.  Egret feathers were popular on hats.  Thank goodness this style went out of fashion.   It’s not unusual to spot these birds all along the east coast, foraging in a marsh or the weeds along a lake or river bank, but it’s rare to see more than two or three at one time.  In San Miguel, however, the pecan trees near Juarez Park look as if they have been decorated with snowy egrets.  They’re an amazing sight, each bird a poem. 

Check out these egret nesting and breeding grounds in Chiapas, Mexico.

“Not that of a cease-fire,

let alone the vision of the wolf and the lamb,

but rather

as in the heart after a great excitement: you can only

talk about the weariness…

A peace

without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,

without words, without

the heavy thud of the rubber stamp: I want it

gentle over us, like lazy white foam…

I want it to come like wildflowers,

suddenly, because the field

needs it: wildpeace.”

~ Yehuda Amichai (Israel), “Wildpeace” — Translated by Chana Bloch

**********

I don’t know what these are, but I have a big, lovely patch growing wild in my back yard.

Wildflowers; Photo:KFawcett