Common Nature

Content advisory: the following images portray animal decomposition and a messy (though not scatological) plumbing mishap, respectively.

This is the very first photo I took in the process of exploring my new surroundings in Florida. I was recovering from a lengthy illness and a lengthy road trip, and coming to terms with a discombobulating succession of life upheavals; accordingly, I began with a local animal in no condition to evade me.

This roughly crow-sized bird (species and cause of death unknown) lay in an oddly heraldic position suggesting a necromancer’s coat of arms, on the disheveled curb strip of a business that was both recovering from Hurricane Ian and changing hands—likewise in a state of transition. The red spot at heart level is a dried wild fruit of some sort.

Taken on 4 June 2023 at 19:48 U.S. Eastern Daylight Savings Time:

( Fined_be_ye_who_move_my_bones. )

Some while later, I suffered a clog of mysterious blue-gray residue in my bathroom sink (don’t worry; it’s long since been dealt with, although not conclusively explained)—and was fascinated by the delicate poinsettia-like radial pattern created when the water finally receded.

Taken on 20 July 2023 at 14:16 U.S. Eastern Daylight Savings Time:

( Mystery_plumbing_sludge. )

Taken last year, this is pictorial tax for my previous post; this little guy was one of a family headquartered in a vacant lot along one of my habitual shopping routes.





Note the ropes cordoning the space off, as well as the designated perch set up for the owls. In the upper background, across the path, is another staked-off owl nesting site; unusually for birds of prey, Burrowing Owls are social animals who sometimes form communities of multiple families.

(If I’ve slipped into Earnest School Essay Mode, it’s because this is stuff I myself am very much newly learning.)

I sure do!

I’m something of an astronomy nerd; you have to understand that the great solar eclipse of 8 April 2024 was something I’d been counting down to my whole life. In my native Dayton, Ohio, I’d gotten to witness the strange begrimed 40-watt sunlight (1) and dappled crescent shadows of the partial solar eclipses of 10 May 1994 and 21 August 2017, after having gotten a fleeting confirmatory glance through SolarShields under welder’s goggles: the exercise was a bit like hunting basilisks or Medusa.

Another point is that I’m acutely homesick for the seasonal markers of the place where I spent 90+% of my life: the violets and wild chives and flowering crabapples, and the two equinoctial yellows of Moraine honeylocusts: neon chartreuse foliage in the spring, and in the fall flaming saffron—turning to orange piles of cornflake crunch beneath the feet. Even the lawn weeds here are unfamiliar.

Until a couple years in advance—by which time it was too late—I had not anticipated that, by the time the total solar eclipse at long last came to Dayton, I would be gone; behold the southern Gulf Coast of Florida’s experience of the Grand Portentuous Celestial Event.

( Continue. )