Tis the season when the wee folk run rampart springing to life after spending the winter sleeping in the hollows. This is a tale about one particular wee folk… Twinkle Bottom.
Winter had been long and harsh. Snow was thigh deep in the highlands. Yet it was a soft snow meaning as you took a step you would sink soundly. Not even snowshoes would save you from wrecked knees, splintered ankles.
March arrived with warm temperatures, sunny skies and fresh aire. Avian creatures soared in with Spring riding opon their wings. Robins brought the song, sparrows the helter skelter, doves renewed lust and Canadian Geese traveling from the southern climes spread its warmth. Ahhhh, life renewed.
As I raked I noticed a trail unlike the voles. It wasn’t under the snow but on top, tiny foot prints scurrying from tree to tree. Hhmmmm, this must be one light creature I pondered as there are only two feet not the usual four. I saw the footie prints mostly around the maples where nectar is flowing, sweetly and slowly. Aha! the mission is on.
Night falls slower now yet settles darker. There is no white shite to brighten the garden. Shadows are slim due to bare branches creating a perfect backdrop for spying on the wee folk. I sit silently under the waning full moon waiting for a sign and I was not disappointed.
A quick flash out of the darkness draws me eyes to the right. Spark! Spark! Spark! O what is that I wonder as these eyes focus. There it is ! The tiniest of creatures wearing, cardinal feather leggings not unlike red Stanfield long johns; a jacket created from moss, perfect, soft and warm; the cap of an acorn keeping his wee tete warm; and a scarf of artemisia so worn but wrapped snugly.
But wait, I see the spark again. What in heavens name is this? With every step he takes, sparks emit. Soft sparks, but more like twinkling from wee Christmas lights blinking on and off to no rhythm but their own. He dances from tree to tree hearing his own silent tune and lights up the night. I sit and watch taking great delight as this wondrous scene of twinkles emits with his every step. The garden is alive this night, with wee Twinkle Bottom.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Once again on a rainy day I wrangled a vole from the home. This time it was Victoria. Just had to be. Autumn past I wrote about Vinnie and his short stay here so I pondered, as I do time to time, Victoria was his mate. Truth be known, while I slid her into the bowl I’m sure I heard her squeak, “innie, innie” and being voles they can’t pronounce the V letter so it made perfect sense to me.
Off we went to the ole creek where she was set free as was Vinnie. She dove into the snow so quickly after picking up his scent that I wouldn’t want to be him when they met up. The tale of “sorry dearest, just slipped out for a few grains and lost me way” wouldn’t hold water with me.
After returning I went out for a walk about and low and behold, I found those two had been busy! The garden above looked like a subway. Tunnels here leading there, leading to back over here and away over there. I stood in awe at their engineering talents. Thru ice and snow, but zigging around rocks, there wasn’t a Stop sign in site.
Though I sigh when I see a critter scurry across the floor, I now have new respect for them. Makes me ponder, if transportation engineers should investigate how these wee creatures do it on time and under budget. So too Innie and Ictoria, long may you live, but just not in my backyard. And I shall always remember a vole in a bowl, is better then a mouse in a house. :)