Photos labelled as caps were taken from the osprey cam set up by the Golden Gate Audubon Society. You can access it at sfbayospreys.org.  All such caps are the property of GGAS and cannot be used or altered without its permission. Photos labelled at photos were taken by the person listed and belong to them, with all rights thereof. They gave permission to use the photo.

​Every year, the ospreys return to the Whirley Crane nest and to nests all over the Bay Area. This wasn’t always so, thus we watch with gratitude to those humans who, noticing a fellow being in distress, worked to save it. The ospreys represent the cycle of life, practicing the rituals that comprise a family and a life. The human observers delight in and learn much from these ospreys, who take life as it is, accepting the vagaries of weather, the little annoyances of life, and the larger: a dud egg or a chick’s death. While  we delight in their  daily lives and  their ability to fly above it all.
So this post is dedicated to the ospreys Richmond and Rosie of the Whirley Crane, who bring so much joy, fun and awe to our lives. And to the fun, quirky and multi-talented WWOC.

                                                               I Can Fly!
 
Once there was a boy named Ike who was born with wings. As a baby and young child, he didn’t know he had wings. He only knew there was something attached to his back. He kept them folded and left them alone. 
When the boy entered school, he met other children and made friends. They asked him about his wings and he shrugged. They were just there. His parents had never mentioned them.  But now he was aware of them and began to wonder. So one night when he was alone in his room, he tried unfolding his wings. Ooh, they were big. He looked in the mirror. They were beautiful! But why where they there?
He felt the need to move the wings, so he did. He folded then unfolded them. He moved them up and down a bit. That felt really good. But he heard his mother’s footsteps approaching, so he folded his wings and jumped into bed. 
From then on, the boy kept his wings folded when around other people, but at night he would unfold them and flap them. He felt happy when he did so. One night, as he flapped his wings, he said “I am me!” For indeed, he somehow felt more whole now. But at school, he wanted to fit in, so he kept his wings folded and the other children soon forgot about them. 
Spring came. The mockingbird returned to the bush below the boy’s window. The boy had always loved listening to the bird’s song at night and tried imitating it. He could sing many of the bird’s songs. Now, however, he noticed something else. When it sang, the bird would often flap its wings and hop up and down. 
The boy wondered if he could do that. He stood up on his bed to try flapping his wings. Then he gave a little jump. He fell. Flap then jump. He fell again. He watched the bird carefully and tried to jump and flap just when the bird did.  He lifted into the air!
Every night after that, the boy took lessons from the mockingbird. Soon he could jump and flap to rise in the air above his bed. And every time he did so, he felt a little more proud, as if he had finally discovered his real self.
But one day, the mockingbird flew off. How did the bird do that? Could he learn too? The next day, the boy went into the garden and watched the bird carefully. When it flew, the boy tried to imitate it and yes, he rose into the air and flew a little ways. But he saw the gardener coming towards him, so he quickly folded his wings and pretended to be looking for bugs.
Now the boy had an uncontrollable urge to fly. But he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He wanted to fit in; he didn’t want to be a freak. He didn’t even want to be famous. He just wanted to be an ordinary boy with a family and friends. 
But he also wanted to fly. So he found secret places in the woods, where there was a clearing and he would go there to fly. When vacation began, he went every day to the clearing and practised flying. The other children asked him to play with them, but he was now too busy with his wings. 
One day, it was particularly windy. There was a kite flying contest on the field by the school, but the boy went instead to his secret place to fly. He had no need of a kite. While he was flying, a gust of wind picked him up and carried him with it, all the way to the field on the other side of town. There the townspeople were flying kites of all kinds and colors: box kites, dragon kites, rainbow kites…
“Look at that kite!” one person shouted, pointing up in the sky. “It’s a big bird kite!”
“Wow,” another exclaimed.
“That’s not a bird, that’s my friend,” a boy answered. Hey, Ike, how did you get up there? With your wings?”
“Come down right now!” an official called out. “This is a kite contest not a bird contest.”
Ike reluctantly angled his wings tightly and flew in a circle to land in the middle of the ring of people. They rushed out to him, some laughing, some congratulating him. A few turned away and shunned him. He didn’t care about any of this. He didn’t want to be famous. He looked at his father, who gave him a thumbs up. Then he looked at his best friend, who did the same. Good. He still had his family and friend. That was all that mattered. So, ignoring the official,  he unfolded his wings and took off, shouting, “I can fly.”
And he circled high above the crowd, free from the ground, free from those who would laugh or shun, from those who would be jealous, free just to be himself. 

​-MW

 The Osprey How Graceful

The osprey how graceful,
Magnificent and regal,
As he sits upon his nest
Looking out over the Bay.

His great talons outstretched,
His keen golden eyes searching,
He glides over the blue water,
To search for his fish prey.

And I too, would be
An osprey just as he,
I would fly over the Bay
To catch my own prey.

Alas, I have no wings to fly,
No talons, no eagle eye,
So I will just stay here,
On Earth with you dear.

Rivers. Poems have been written about them and it seems as if every songwriter has written at least one song to rivers. There is something about the presence of water, the never-ending flow that inspires poets and composers alike. And more often than not, they compare the river to our lives, flowing inexorably downward, toward the sea, the water going through grassy valleys, rocky gorges, villages and cities alike. 
Below are a few examples, from others and from the poets themselves.
Píccola will abstain this month, as she has no idea what a river is and was not interested in entering the water the one time she saw the Eel River. 

​                                                                  Life’s River
 
The people stood on the bank of the river. One stepped gingerly into the water, wading until the ground gave way and he had to swim. Another dove into the middle of the stream and swam energetically downriver. Yet another waded in and turned onto her back to float wherever the current would lead her. 
One by one, they entered the water. A family made a small boat and launched it together. They took turns rowing. A larger group of people lashed together logs to fashion a raft. Together they pushed and pulled until the raft was afloat. Then they all climbed aboard and chose one man to pole them into the current. 
Swimmers, floaters, and boats moved downriver. Sometimes they hailed each other, other times they focussed on their own journey. Some cooperated, taking turns rowing, others just sat and watched the scenery. Swimmers stroked alone but some stopped to help other swimmers who were tired or needed help navigating an obstacle in the river. 
So it went, day after day. The river ran quickly down the mountain, then slowed through a meadow. Speeding up on a downhill slope, it hit a rocky patch and tumbled down the rocks, a waterfall. Boats were upended, swimmers battered, many found themselves swirling helplessly in an eddy. But they persevered, helped each other out of the eddy, and finally they were all back in the river’s current. 
The river entered a valley where it flowed smoothly and quietly. The people rested, they called back and forth to each other, they even sang. But then other small rivers joined their river and the waters were deeper. On stormy days, the water turned cold and wild. Still the people swam and rowed and poled. What else could they do? They had undertaken this journey and did not want to leave the river. 
The people grew tired. The journey had been long and hard. When would it end? They rested more and rowed and swam less as the river grew wider and more calm. The water was warmer now too.  The people could relax a bit. They let their boats drift or floated on their backs, as the river’s current inexorably carried them downstream.
Finally, the river widened into an estuary. Cold salt water waved up to meet them. It mixed with the river’s warmer, fresh water. Before them, the people saw a wide expanse of water, the all encompassing sea, where life began. And they were ready. They rowed and swam towards the vast ocean, ready to accept wherever the water would take them.
 And the river kept flowing from the mountain to the sea.
 
MW 3/22

February, Harbinger of Spring
 
The month of February by the Bay,
And Spring is whispering it’s on its way.
               Soft rustling  leaves in the old live-oak tree,               
I’m here, Spring says, just come out now to see!
 
Tulips, red and yellow, poke up their head,
Yellow oxalis decorates the bed.
White cherry blossom petals on the breeze.
Sneeze yellow pollen from acacia trees.
 
The mourning doves on warm deck softly croon,
The mockingbird composes a new tune
The robin chirps up in the apple tree
Around my head I hear a buzzing bee.
            
             We welcome Spring, can go out and about,              
But still we pray for rain to end the drought.
And listen for the call of the osprey
Announcing that she has arrived today.
 
-MW

People in North America and Europe tend to think of the seasons as they are depicted in stories,songs,  movies and even comics. Seasons are specific weather, the plant cycle, the animal cycles, and traditions for humans: special foods, special activities and holidays.
 Autumn is falling leaves, crisp cold air, apple cider, harvest time. We celebrate Halloween with pumpkins and Thanksgiving with turkey, corn stalks and more pumpkin. Winter is cold, with snow and ice. We build snowmen, go skiing or skating, drink cocoa by the fire. The trees are bare. Spring is lilacs, bulbs sprouting and flowering, rain showers followed by sun, warming air, cherry blossoms. The first strawberries, freshly sprouted greens. And summer is hot, time to go to the beach, trees in full leaf, cherries, ice cream, sodas, picnics and barbecues on a lush green lawn.  Outside living. Interrupted by a brief thunderstorm. 
​These symbols are not wrong but they are provincial and stereotypical. 
Meanwhile, I have heard many people say that the Bay Area has no seasons. Having grown up here, I can attest that these people are wrong. We do not have the Hallmark card Christmasses or dream of a White Christmas (except to drive to the Sierras), many of our trees are still in leaf in January, and the grass is green in Winter, brown in Summer. But we have seasons, albeit a bit more subtle here. One must be tuned into Nature to feel our seasons. We do celebrate the traditional holidays the same as on the East Coast, but with a slight change. And our diverse community means that many other holidays are celebrated as well, such as Divali, Moon Festival, Eid al Fiitr, Rosh Hashana, and Juneteenth. The photo essay that follows are my thoughts and feelings about our seasons in the Bay Area. I'd love to hear from readers if they agree or disagree and what are your favorite parts to each season.

Autumn, to me, is the beginning of the year. First of all, it is the beginning of the school year. And I spent 20 years in school as a student and another 21 years as a teacher. Then too, the rainy season begins in late Autumn. Every year, usually near the end of August, there is one day when I feel Autumn coming. The day is warm with a light wind and the air is dry. The days are colder in Vallejo, 20 miles to the North, and warmer in Berkeley, the reverse of the Spring and Summer days. After Labor Day is the true beginning of Autumn. Gradually, leaves turn colors on the trees. Harvest is in full force. We bring in tomatoes and make tomato sauce, cook zucchini and make soup, stuff a large zucchini, and still have plenty to give away. And apples! Apple pie, apple sauce to last the entire Winter. The freezer is full. 
Then there are the holidays. Stereotypical and provincial as they are, I grew up with these holidays and they still mean something special to me. Autumn brings the harvest holidays for many cultures. It brings the Moon Festival, when one eats mooncakes, and Diwali, festival of lights, and Sukkoth, another harvest festival. But most popular is Halloween, a time for kids to dress up and go out at night. Spooky decorations and carved pumpkins.  Then comes Thanksgiving, a holiday to spend with family, and interestingly one that has been less commercialized than other holidays.  Cooking together, sharing food, and sharing a meal. And a chance to eat turkey. Roast turkey with gravy, hot turkey sandwich, cold turkey sandwich until finally I have had enough turkey to last me a while.  A cornucopia centerpiece filled with Fall produce, which in the Bay Area usually includes a pomegranate, sometimes kiwis, and lemons. And Fall leaves dipped in melted wax to preserve them. Traditionally, I plant my bulbs on Thanksgiving weekend.  A promise of Spring to come. 

​

 Sometime in November, the rains arrive (hopefully) and Winter is here in the Bay Area. The skies are gray and cloudy, days are shorter and nightfall earlier. And best of all, the hills turn green. Every year, I watch the hills, rejoicing when I see green grass sprouting and worrying when the hills are still brown. Not golden as in the summer but more a more sickly parched brown. This year, they turned green on time! More time is spent indoors. In December, the kiwis grow large and ripen. Then it is a race to pick them before the squirrels eat them all.  In the store and at market, mandarins arrive, juicy sunshine. 
December is a holiday month. Like others, I put up lights at the beginning of the month to brighten the dark evenings. I decorate the house with Christmas scenes and I set up an advent wreath. Some years, there is a Christmas tree. Aa a child, the Christmas tree was the centerpiece, surrounded by wrapped presents that we could see but not touch. Eager anticipation. Then there was the display put on by Mr. Shadi, an Indian Sikh who, despite his origin and religion, put on a full Bethlehem display every year. I knew that  display from my early childhood and it has now been taken on by volunteers so that it lives beyond its creator. A true gift to the community. 
 As an adult, I attend the Christmas Revels, the Messiah sing along, and the Christmas Eve service. I sing Christmas carols in the car, at home alone, in my singing group. I love Christmas carols, always have, and have learned at least 100 of them in various languages. As a teacher, I loved planning holiday lessons in Math, Language Arts, and Art, singing holiday songs, and the general aura of festivity. 
The last days of December have always been a letdown to me. The presents were opened and no longer a focus of anticipation but simply things. The holiday festivities ended and financial tasks awaited. While teaching, I did no schoolwork the week before Christmas but then had to do it all the following week before classes started again. Today, it is more an end to the festivities and activity and a time for quiet reflection. 
But January brings its own pleasures. While there is still welcome rain, one day I see the tulip trees are blooming, a harbinger of Spring to come. The bulbs begin to poke up their green leaves. The days imperceptibly begin to grow longer. Spring is on its way.

In the Bay Area, Spring comes in February. The plum and cherry trees are in full blooms, other trees begin to leaf out, the robins return. My mother used to buy the first strawberries for my father's February birthday. Valentine's Day fits Spring with its pinks and reds and message of love. Tulips and daffodils are blooming. Easter too, is a fitting holiday, and indeed, it was born of ancient Springtime rituals and the equinox. Its symbols herald the budding life of Spring: eggs, chicks, flowers and grass. There is the cherry blossom festival as well. There are (hopefully) days of rain showers interspersed with sunshine and rainbows. Windy days, just right for kites. Roller skating and swings. Robins arrive.  The ospreys return to begin nesting. Spring is fresh and new, birth and life, babies, new sprouting plants. Time for children to play outside. And time to plant the vegetable garden. There is May Day, celebrated by but a few. And Mother's Day, for what better month in which to honor those who bring us life and love and family. 
I used to hear that Spring was wonderful in the East and that California had no Spring. I would counter that the Eastern Spring may be more spectacular, with its lilacs and the snow melted, but it is fleeting, while our Spring, filled with bird song and blossoms of all colors and sunny days, lasts four months.

In late May comes summer. Along with cherries. Hot summer days, sunning on the beach. Not. Summer in the Bay Area, at least by the Bay, is fog. Warm days and cool nights. As a child, I would change my clothes several times a day in the summer: first long pants and a jacket in the morning, later shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, then back to the jacket in the evening. But always barefoot, for the pavement held the heat of midday. A jacket and shorts was de rigueur. Summer, of course, meant vacation from school. As a student, time to just loaf or find activities of my own. Play time with friends. And family vacations. My favorite of these were the times we went camping. Lots of outdoor time. Popsicles and lemonade. Picnics. As an adult and teacher, summer was a welcome relief, time to rest then to plan the following school year. Perhaps a trip somewhere. Time to clean up and do all the household chores I had neglected during the school year. Time to work in the yard every day. Precious time. For seven years, I enjoyed the arrival of the next Harry Potter book just as school got out. I silently thanked Scholastic for timing the books' arrival to coincide with the end of the schoolyear. I could just sit and read all day and night for several days.
 The only real summer holiday is July 4th. It has never been my favorite holiday. The fireworks didn't impress me all that much and reminded my of bombs. In recent years, I worry about their effect on the ospreys and other birds nesting. Still, they can be fun to watch. Of course, many years, the fog obscures one's view. Our well-loved fog, so loved that it has been named Karl.  The symbol of summer in the Bay Area. 
​

                                    Vain Questions

                              Whence, whither, why?
                              The mysteries of life!
                              We'll never cease to ask
                               And we'll never know. ​

Trying to get that elusive Christmas present that I already stripped of its fur. 

 
Solstice 2021
               
On this, the shortest day, the sun has set,
The yellow moon its face has not shown yet.
While misty clouds hide vast and brighter skies,   
Our Earth,  in still and sightless darkness lies.
 Unseen by us, the heavens now conceal
 A  message they care not yet to reveal.
 
Then dark clouds part, the sky is sparked with light,   
Unhindered by moon’s comforting warm light. 
And burdened with the truth of all they know, 
The stars send message down to us below.      
Words, that lie beyond Earth’s atmosphere,
Where air and life, consciousness disappear.
 
Be still now, listen to the heavens’ chime
That rings out, “Do not fear, there is still time.”
 
Dec. 2021

Every year, the Christmas Season starts for me with Saint Nicholas Day, as well as the first Sunday of Advent. 
So each year, I post a holiday story for kids on this day. This year, the theme is, what else, trees! I promise it is the last of my tree obsession. I hope you enjoy reading it and, if you do, that you find a child with whom to share it. May you embrace the inner child in yourself this Christmas Season, forget all the trials and worries of the past year,  and enjoy the holidays with hope and cheer.
                                                 Welcome Yule!

                                                       The Living Christmas Tree
 
Robin loved all the trees in his yard. He liked to climb the oak  tree and sit in its branches. He liked to pick fruit from the apple tree. ….
But his favorite tree was the tall redwood that stood in one corner of the yard. He loved that redwood. It was so tall that he could not see the top.
One day his parents took him for a drive. They drove across the bridge to the other side of the bay. They stopped at the top of a hill. 
“Look across the bay,” his father told him. “What can you see?”
“I see the university tower and the city buildings.”
“Do you see our tree?”
“Where?”
“Over there.”
“That’s our tree? It looks so little.”
“But do you see how it towers above the houses?”
“Oh yes, now I see.  That’s our house. I see our roof with the solar panels. And the tree is way above the roof.”
“Now you can see the top of our tree.”
The tree was the tallest thing in the neighborhood. And that was a problem. The neighbors behind did not like the tree. They wanted the tree cut.
“You can’t just cut a redwood tree,” Robin’s father told them. But they didn’t listen. And they got the city on their side. You can’t block someone’s view. 
So the tree was cut. Now it was ugly. Robin didn’t like to look at it. It made him sad.
It made his parents sad too. So they cut it all the way down. But they left the stump. 
The boy liked to sit on the stump and remember the tree. 
One day he saw something green. He looked closely. There was a small tree growing beside the stump.
“Mama,” he called. “The tree is growing again!”
She came to see. “Redwood trees do that,” she said. 
“Then we will have our big tree again.”
“She shook her head sadly. “Redwoods take years to grow. Besides, the neighbors won’t allow it.”
The boy was sad. But his father said, “I have an idea. What if we take that little tree and put it in a pot? Then you can take care of it on the patio. You’ll be able to see the top whenever you want.”
So Robin and his father carefully dug up and planted the little tree. They used a big pot because they knew the tree would grow. 
The boy loved that little tree and made sure its roots were damp but not too wet and that its branches were clean. 
The first week of Christmas, Robin and his parents went to the tree farm to buy a Christmas tree. They told  him to find a favorite tree. But the he was sad. When his parents asked him why, he said,
“I don’t want to cut down a tree. That’s what was done to our redwood.”
His parents explained that these trees were grown to be cut. 
“But the trees don’t know that,” Robin answered. “They want to grow.” He turned away from the trees. “I don’t want a Christmas tree this year.”
So they went home without a tree. The boy went over to his little redwood.
“Here is our Christmas tree,” he said.
“But we can’t bring this tree inside,” his parents explained. “It wouldn’t like that. It might get sick.”
“Then our Christmas tree will be outside,” the boy said. 
“Santa can’t put presents under a tree outside. It might rain and the presents will get wet.”
“Then I just won’t have any presents this year,” he answered. “I don’t need presents. I need my tree.”
His parents didn’t answer and the Robin was content. His parents put the tree lights on the inside windows and hung ornaments around the house. His  mother gave him the star to put wherever he wished. He put it on the top of his little tree. A top he could reach.
 Whenever his parents asked what he would like for Christmas, Robin said he didn’t want anything.
Christmas Eve came. The family ate a special dinner then they sang Christmas carols. There was no tree to sing around but the Robin didn’t mind. There were lights glowing everywhere in the house. There were no enticing packages, but he didn’t mind that either. 
He asked his parents if they could sing one song outside by his tree. So they went outside and sang Silent Night. 
That night, it didn’t rain but it snowed. It hardly ever snowed in this part of the country, but it did  this Christmas Eve. In the morning, Robin ran out to his little redwood and found its branches covered with snow. It was so pretty. 
“You are a Christmas tree after all,” he told it. He saw a large package under the tree. “Go ahead, open it,” said his mother, who had come out too.
He ripped open the package and found a little garden spade, just his size and a hand trowel and a book about trees. 
“I guess Santa heard about your tree.” His mother smiled. 
“Santa knows everything,” he answered. “But Mommy, will the tree’s branches be too cold with the snow? Should I knock the snow off?”
She smiled. “No, trees are used to the outside weather. They know how to deal with it. Your tree will be fine.”
They went inside for a special Christmas breakfast. When Robin went into the living room after breakfast, he found presents lying in a heap under the lamp. 
So he had presents after all. But the best present of all was his little tree, alive and growing, its branches covered with snow, and a star shining at its very top. 
 May your Christmas be filled with the hope and love the boy found
                                  in his living Christmas tree.

Bad Moon Arising                                            Harvest Moon Rising
by John Fogerty                                                     midi's reply
 
I see the bad moon a-rising                              I see a harvest moon  a-rising
I see trouble on the way                                   I see that hope is on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin'                         I see earthquakes and lightnin’
I see bad times today                                       I see sunshine today. 
Don't go around tonight                                    So, don’t  be afraid tonight
Well it's bound to take your life                         Don’t grieve the waning light.
There's a bad moon on the rise                        Harvest Moon is on the rise.
 
I hear hurricanes a-blowing                              I hear hurricanes a-blowing
I know the end is coming soon                         I fear the end is coming soon.
I fear rivers over flowing                                   I see rivers are not flowing,
I hear the voice of rage and ruin                       I hear the voice of rage and ruin.
Well don't go around tonight                             But don’t be afraid tonight,
Well it's bound to take your life                         Don’t grieve the waning  light.
There's a bad moon on the rise                        Harvest Moon is on the rise.
 
Hope you got your things together                   Hope that you are feeling better
Hope you are quite prepared to die                  Hope you feel the Autumn air. 
Looks like we're in for nasty weather                We may be in for nasty weather,
One eye is taken for an eye                             But the wind is blowing fair.
Well don't go around tonight                            Well, don’t be afraid tonight
Well it's bound to take your life                         Don’t grieve the waning light,
There's a bad moon on the rise                        Harvest moon is on the rise.
 

The Last Day of Summer

Tis the last day of summer
And the ospreys have flown away.
Do you see Rosie up yonder
She too is flying today.
 
She will fly thousands of miles,
To her warm winter home
Find her favorite  Southern beach,
Spend the winter there alone.
 
So farewell to our dear Rosie,
May the wind in your wings be fair
May the skies above be blue
And a warm welcome greet you there.
 
Richie is at the nest
Watching for his mate Rosie.
After your long winter rest,
Rosie, will you return to me?
 
Tis the last day of summer,
And the ospreys have all flown.
Do you see Richie up yonder
On the nest all alone?
​
​midi