#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
“Why Do Maple Seeds Fly?
One reason is that among trees, maples have some of the largest, widest canopies. That means for a seedling to grow, the seed can’t simply fall to the ground beneath the tree like a nut or a fruit. And, since only a few animals eat the seeds – mostly turkeys, finches and on rare occasions, squirrels and chipmunks – there is very little chance that wildlife will pick up the seeds and carry them elsewhere. To get around these obstacles, maples developed winged samaras as a way to transport their fruit to sunnier, more hospitable places.”
By 7:30 I am outside. What perfection of sky, no clouds. I walk to the river for a quick look. The river is wind ruffled. I do not stay long at the edge. This is a big yard work day for me and Frank; he’s up and out early too, on his tractor. Me, with my rake and three wagons for leaves and the last hour or so of Mill on the Floss to listen to as I clean up under the shrubs and pick up sticks along the driveway. My third George Eliot novel listened to; and I don’t want this one to end, but, of course, it must, and it’s not a happy ending, but it’s a just right ending. I have a client, and break for that, and Suzi goes, after that, to see the vet for her limp; we will try a new medicine. A wind blows all morning, hard, so Frank doesn’t burn, but keeps working on the tractor. I love this season of maple wings–helicopters landing everywhere, ruby red. These spring days grow bright and brighter and the grass comes in green and soft and moist.
“We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass, the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows, the same redbreasts that we used to call ‘God’s birds’ because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known?”
― George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss