Finch Field

 It has been a really long time since I visited this blog. Pandemic brain is a real thing.

When poet Wendell Berry is overwhelmed with "despair for the world," he goes to lie down next to a marsh, or at least a pond, if his classic poem "The Peace of Wild Things" is to be taken literally (which poetry generally is not). I love both marshes and ponds, but lying down next to one in the middle of the night would not be a good idea for me. For no other reason, there is the little matter of getting up again, not an activity to be taken for granted by someone who has arthritis most places she has bone. Fortunately, the "grace of the world" can be experienced in a variety of places. One of my favorite spots is what I call Finch Field, just beyond Susan's Meadow on the Meadow Loop Trail at Wildwood Metropark.

The field may not be immediately aesthetically arresting, but it is on my top ten list of happy places. For several months every year, it is Goldfinch Paradise, and today did not disappoint. Today, this particular thistle was in motion from the at-least-three female finches having at its seed. I opted not to get close enough to photograph the girls, my little point-and-shoot not having sufficient capacity to get a good shot without disturbing them, but they were there for several minutes going about their business. Then, as is the way of goldfinches, they took off, leaving me free to examine the plant and ask, "Why this thistle, in a field full of them?"

No answer emerged, as to my human eye, this plant looked just like dozens of others nearby. But it was The One today.

Not only for the finches, but also for what seemed to be some very busy bumblebees.

Weedy and annoying as thistle can be, is any cultivated flower more beautiful than a thistle bloom bud?

Another highlight of Finch Field is the grasses. Indian grass comes into its own in September. This clump also got its share of goldfinch attention. You must imagine a little golden bird riding one of these five-foot blades to the ground, nibbling all the way.

And the sight of the tree I have named the Prairie Sentinel always lifts my spirits. This white oak on the edge of a mixed second-growth woodland is older than I and, barring human intervention, is likely to be here for at least a couple of centuries after all of us currently inhabiting the planet are gone.

Surrounded by so much life, pandemics, elections, and the deaths of much-loved leaders fade away.