Babbling Brook By Kristin Siekman
A natural liquid wonderland is hidden in the valley between two dirt cliffs. It babbles and speaks and seems to be answered by the swallows that graze its surface as they feast on small wispy flies and sip from the cool stream. As I approach the water’s bank, my bare foot falls into a shallow mire, and I hesitate to withdraw it, basking in the slippery muck of its territory before lifting it out to wash it off in the brook. I decide not to plunge my foot to its depths so as to frighten the school of minnows that gather at a nearby rock. I dip my big toe in, unobtrusively, and slowly sink my foot further and further into the water until it settles at the rocky bottom. The guppies are undisturbed; I do not think they are watching. Concealed amongst the rocks and sunken driftwood, my feet are naught but boulders to the fish and snails at the water’s basin.
The Great Hulking rock sticks out like a sore thumb. Flat ocean and beach land all around and then this. How did it get here? I think back to the beginning when the earth was formed and to the years and years that have passed and changed it. I stare up at this monument to our area. Green and yellow moss creep down its sides and stretch towards the ocean. The colors of serenity and cheer make even a foggy day pleasant. Jagged edges stick out in no particular pattern- swooping, pointing- crevices, cliffs, and slides. A foggy mist envelopes it in a mysterious blanket. The sun peaks from behind its vail to glow on the rock. It winks and smiles faintly as the birds of the sea dip, dive, and glide around this monument. Possessively they circle the top and make their rounds, coming briefly to the bottom. Waves crash into its base, but the mighty mass is undaunted. Stepping on its toes is a mere joke and provokes it not. With respect and awe I soak in the beauty, power, and mystery of Morro Rock. Climbing high into the air. it is seen from miles around. A great stone giant in the sea, protecting us from the powerful ocean and standing its ground.
Aimee d'Hondt
April 7, 2007
Today I was privileged enough to spend the day on Pine Flat Lake. I have come home to Fresno County for the Easter holiday this weekend. Rising well before the sun, I packed my modest boat and drove the hour to this favorite spot of mine. Spring is alive in the foothills. They are green as can be. Looking at the different vegetation around, I am reminded of an army-like camouflage. The grasses, trees, rocks, and shrubs decorate the hillsides in an unrelenting pattern. It is the distant view that really shows the detail of my surroundings. The lake level is far below its normal level. This year's meager snowfall could be a troubling scenario for the lake and all of California. It will only be a matter of weeks before the vivid colors are drained from the surrounding and are replaced with ambers, browns, and other colors normally associated with fall. Although the oaks that are clustered about, highly adapted drought should hold down the fort for shades of green that will otherwise disappear. The calm morning hours leave a mirror-like surface to navigate. The deep blue water is in the 60s; a bit too cold to enjoy yet for a swim. Every few minutes the cadence of a vehicle driving along the hilltop road can be heard. As they disappear, the gentle roar is still within earshot. The ducks fly above in almost the same timing pattern, every few minutes. It won't be long until they too are gone for cooler climate. Summer is on its way.
-Evan Marthedal
"But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head, and I am not where my head is; I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods? Walking by Thoureau.
Thoreau believes that when we enter nature, we should be aware with all of our senses and truly be able to appreciate our surroundings. There are many times when I find myself in a beautiful setting such as the beach, a mountain top, or a quite hillside, that I find my thoughts drifting to that of schoolwork or other seemingly meaningless problems. If I could only learn to be 100% present in every situation, I would leave each day more satisfied with what I have accomplished. Nature is a place for solitude and contemplation. Therefore, it's the least we can do to leave our thoughts of technology and the ultimate destruction of Nature behind.
Although Thoreau is extremely arrogant and egotistical, he knows how to truly appreciate Nature at its core. Even though I think this quote holds true in some instances, I also believe that Nature is a good place to figure out 'real world' problems without everyday distractions. Sometimes all we ever need is a fresh perspective on an old thought.
Erica Presser 4/17/07
Thoreau Journal April 17, 2007
"No cockerels to crow nor hens to cackle in the yard. No yard! but unfenced Nature reaching up to your very sills. A young forest growing up under your windows, and wild sumachs and blackberry vines breaking through into you cellar: sturdy pitch-pines rubbing and creaking against the shingles for want of room, their roots reaching quite under the house. Instead of a scuttle or a blind blown off in the gale, - a pine tree snapped off or torn up by the roots behind your house for fuel. Instead of no path to the frontyard gate in the Great Snow, - no gate - no frontyard - and no path to the civilized world!"
Thoreau seems pretty proud about his home and its seclusion. It is pretty romantic - the idea of living out in the woods by yourself and not relying on anything or anyone else besides yourself and nature. I just don't understand how this lifestyle accounts for human solidarity. I guess it doesn't. But he is so far removed from true poverty (a loss of choice, a loss of freedom) because he doesn't have starving children or a physical disability. It seems pretty selfish to live his way. I guess there are people who are just as selfish living in suburban isolation. So I'd take nature first. I'd take true solitude before the pretense of a community. But what about really enjoying human company - block parties and ball games and sharing stories, sharing pain. Maybe people like Thoreau are just kidding themselves if they think they have no responsibility. Tend to nature or tend to fellow man? Why separate the two?
Lauren Zahner
The Dancing Oats
Amanda Hall
The wind blows the wild oats back and forth under its great force. The tall, narrow stalks dance as if they were choreographed to move as one being. The oats are like the arms of a ballerina, spreading out with every movement t provide balance. A large gush of wind shoves itself through the crowd of oats and the oats dip, nearly touching the ground. The wind does not seem to be forcing the oats down but rather dancing along side the oats, supporting the stalks as they bend toward the underbrush.
An Oak's Army
Amanda Hall
The bodies of the last fall lie on the ground creating a graveyard of leaves. Their thick, stiffened bodies are skeletons of the life they once lived. The brown blanket of the past makes way for the youthful greenery that will take its place. The daggers of the aged army lie broken and buried beneath the underbrush. Up above, the vibrant green swords of new life stand tall ready for the time when they must protect their creator, their mother. They are ready to take their place in the decaying graveyard below. The wind strikes and one worn down soldier takes his fall. The army above bids farewell and waits for the next passerby or creature who will try to climb the other walls of their mother.
Chris Bonny
Reflection is the entry I would like to share
~Jessica Alameda
4/12/2007
"Beautiful"
Cesar Sanchez
While sitting under a pine tree, I am
appreciating her movement with the wind. She
gently moves from side to side as the wind
blows by on the open meadow where she sites
quietly. The meadow is surrounded by mature
and young pine trees and is overwhelmed by
her presence. After a while, I went to sit
next to her. She seemed down to earth and
happy that spring was here. I touched her
gently and felt her rough, but yet, soft skin as
her colors glowed with the ray s of the sun. I
noticed that her appearance seemed familiar.
I took a moment to remember where I have
seen her before. Finally, it clicked. She was
introduced to me at Cal Poly's Poly Canyon.
Her name is Nasella Pulchra.
Remembering her name brought joy to the moment.
I looked at her and said,
"Pulchra, you are beautiful."
Nasella Pulchra--Purple Needlegrass
"Pulchra" means "Beautiful"
The afternoon sun seemed to be calling my name in its warm
whispering tones out over the bay. Answering the familiar beckon of the
out doors, I followed the tantalizing glow. The breeze was warm and
caressing as I left the confines of my work. It is strange how merely
walking out of a door can give you a sense of such divine freedom. To
be in direct contact with the natural elements after enduring
fluorescent lighting and recirculated air gave the sensation of having
weight lifted off of my body. One foot in front of the other, I made my
way down the street.
I am reminded of Thoreau's "Walking" where he states that "we are
but faint hearted crusaders, even the walkers...Our expeditions are but
tours and come round again at evening to the old hearth side from which
we set out." This expedition is just such "a tour." However, in my best
attempt at "sauntering," I made my way to a viewing area where one
might sit to look out over the bay. I bent over the railing and watched
the water on its way out of the bay, carrying with it bits of bay weed
and various debris. Across the water pelicans waddled and sat on the
shore of the sand bar as if enjoying a picnic.
To one side of me the gulls, those curious creatures, whose audacity
is matched only by their voracious appetites, hovered about the rail
near a restaurant. Squawking and gawking at the people, hoping for a
hand out, their black eyes keenly searched out a new tasty morsel. Many
a person has lost a savory lunch to these scavengers.
A slight gurgling sound brought my attention to the
barnacle-encrusted column beneath me. The glistening water lapped
against the dock. Here the starfish clung, making their home in this
tidal apartment complex, sharing space with a colony of mussels. The
stars' golden and deep carnelian red, winked at me like jewels in a
glass case as the water rose and fell. What treasure we have living on
the coast, to be able to enjoy such beauty.
I lifted my eyes to the horizon, if only time were as infinite. It
is time to head in doors again, so I bid my farewell to the fresh
breeze and console myself with the thought that I will be able to look
out the window after all.
Julie Milner
The Shores of Avila
Morning:
Calm-
The starry night sky blankets the early morning, piercing the darkness with splays of beauty. The moonlight and stars reflect and distort in the lulls of each wave as they come bubbling to shore. The soft sand gives slightly underneath, yet firmly holds my weight, assuring individuals that walk on its smooth surface that the strength of the Earth will not give precariously underneath them. The melody of the seagulls, geese, and mallards adds to the harmony and rhythmic cacophony of the waves struggling to reach the shore. And suddenly, with no warning, the first rays of warmth and light pierce the black veil of night and dawn arrives. The hawks arrive, sending the mallards, geese, and seagulls screaming. Dogs and their accompanying walkers trickle to shore, adding their own individual marks to the otherwise smooth shoreline. Fiery reds, oranges, and blues appear on the horizon, and day approaches. The melancholy of night fades and the vigor of day begins.
Cloudy-
As the sun struggles to pierce the veil of night, ominous shades of gray and black defend the glory of the night. The sky cannot decide whether it wants to allow day to arrive. Stars and moon alike are guarded against. Visibility is low and the rhythmic crashing of the waves comes constantly, yet without sight, each wave sounds of thunder and impending doom for those that come to close to their watery fingers. Finally, after an eternal struggle, light splays through the dark sky, cascading and charging out of the night sky to victoriously trumpet the virtues of day.
Windy-
Howling like a beast from hell, the air crackles and sizzles with potential energy, letting all know that the earth and sky are not the only beings alive. With unbridled strength, it lifts the grains of sand in the air and splays them into my eyes. Fear and alarm scream in my mind. The sheer power and merciless wrath of the air deserves the respect and awe that are given to the land and sky. With its unyielding strength, it bends the waves and water to its whims. It lays waste to any bird willing to defy its wrath. It makes it clear, if not always, at least for today, the air is master of the shoreline.
Stormy-
As if sensing the struggles between skies, land, and air the day prior, the clouds and air gather even more energy, crushing the sky, earth, and oceans under their merciless and relentless strength. Waves obey every command the winds and clouds demand. Rain and sand pelt me, showing the arrogance and futility of mankind in its attempt to dominate the land around them. For truly, there is only one master, and it is not I. Birds huddle in the brush, their only source of domicile and reprieve from the hunting winds and rain. Neither dog nor master comes to challenge the wrath of the waves, wind, or rain. Only I stand to challenge the strength of the storm, and even I cower in fear and passivity to its power. Soon I too flee the unending strength of the storm, fleeing to the sanctuary of my home to protect me from the ferocity of nature. Today, nature dominates man.
Afternoon:
The light breeze plays with the glistening sweat starting to accumulate on my shoulders and neck. The symphony of laugher, cries, and excitement from all the individuals running on the pier around me is infectious. Soon, a smile cannot but form on my face. The sky is bright and clear, with only a few clouds in the sky to protect the gentle people below it from the strength of the sun. The waves lazily rise and fall onto the shore, beating slowly to a tune that I cannot comprehend. With sticky spoon in one hand and icy cold gelato in the other, nothing can interfere with the glorious beauty and majesty of the beach on a sunny day. Neither stress nor chaotic ramblings of the mind venture fore into my mind. Peace and joy truly do reflect the emotions expressed by nature.
Eric Lauhttp://elephantandgrass.blogspot.com/
Jungeun Kim
Its surprising how loud nature is
the train is passing by, but it's horn is drowned out by the crickets and birds and trees rustling. Two crows weave in and around the trees and everything else is calm and still. Everything moves slower here, its not the fast pace college life out here. The crows fly back from where they came and they seem to have been calmed by the land. I just realized that my sunglasses on and after taking them off, an even more lush green is revealed to me. After relaxing on my stone seat, I notice that my mind has stopped racing over work and stress. It has slowed to the pace of nature only thinking about my surroundings. Its too bad that I know once everyone starts moving again, my mind will pick up right where it left off... something to do with the dishes.
Kimberly Coombs
April 5, 2007
The land is sparse and rugged
We sit here spread out like the morros
The hills proudly wearing its green
But the land feels so desolate
Nothing moves
Not even the people surrounding me
Staring out at the rolling folds of land
I become nothing but an observer
Noise bringing life
Screeching directly overhead
A hawk skirts the sky
It acknowledges us
The woods begin to echo in an orchestra
Voices emerge from the thicket
The melodious flutes of birds steady chirping
The beating drums of croaking frogs bellow low
I fall into the rhythm and melody
All interrupted with the hammering of an incessant woodpecker
--
Alexander Kith
http://natureasiseeit.blogspot.com/2007/04/henry-david-thoreau.html
A Description of a Ground Cover;
Megan Grove
Upon inspection it looks to be vetch, a member of the wild pea family. A square and ribbed structural stem reaches toward the sky and at each node a leaf projects, guarded at its base by the stiffer, jagged wings of stipules. The plant's structure and blueprint are rife with repetition and balance. Each leaf alternating one hundred and eighty degrees, projects from the central stem and each leaf unfurled and arching at its tip; dangles the grasping tendril threefold. I note where it has tightly wound a weave, choking tighter and tighter the grass in its grasp. At the base of each leaf nestled with care the blossom opens; two halves mirrored. A lilac veined backdrop in front of which a rosy purple set of petals is folded like a pair of hands in prayer.