The Photo Bin - March 2013

Spring's just now beginning to get a toehold here so March wasn't very pretty. But where the flora fell short, the fauna made up for in spades. This month's bin is a handful of images of some of the critters that have wandered by over the past couple of weeks. It's not necessarily great photography, but it's life as we know it here; unexpected wildlife visits and hasty attempts to photograph them with whatever gear is within reach.

One of the best parts of March is that the bluebirds begin to nest. We have five bluebird houses around the place and I took my first walkabout of the year to check for activity in the various boxes. Not wanting a face full of sharp beaks and claws from startled moms, I make a lot of noise when approaching and then tap the sides of the houses before peeking inside. When thumping the box furthest from the house, deepest into the hardwoods, a momma did indeed flee, but not what I was expecting.

My knee-jerk response was "bat," but as the creature sailed to the base of the nearest tree I saw that it was a flying squirrel; the first I've seen in these woods. Having only my cell phone, I snapped the picture to the left from a distance, so apologize for the poor quality. I raced to the house and grabbed some better glass but when I got back the glider had returned to the box. Not wanting to disturb her again, I snapped the picture above as she kept a wary eye on me.

Sometimes, though, the wildlife is not quite so wary, though often direct contact with our newly cleaned windows has a bit to do with it. This chickadee took a while to rearrange his marbles, but was happy to be carried around for fifteen minutes or so while doing it. Mary took this shot of the bird and me contemplating one another; probably each trying to decide who had the bigger beak.

And speaking of birds and glass, I had to laugh when I saw this imprint on our bathroom window, invisible until I began to steam things up with a shower. Based on its size, it appears a mourning dove did a full-body beak plant. All I could think of was Wile E. Coyote and the cliff face.

To finish the bird theme, I offer the above. I was excited about this shot, thinking I had captured the image of a common redpoll perched on the garden fence; excited because redpolls aren't all that common in this part of the country. I shot a note off to my naturalist and photographer buddy Mike (who's starting a pretty cool blog of his own at the Road's End Naturalist) to report the sighting and he burst my bubble, suggesting that what I had actually captured was a... well, see if you can figure that out.

And no, it's not the model for the Angry Birds video game.

Our neighbors are not all cute little feathered friends. When moving some terra cotta pots around, I found this pair of garter snakes curled together under one of the larger ones. Startling, of course, but very, very cool.

And finally, a poor shot of a regular around here. I often see this brilliant yearling hanging around the lower ridge where our gravel road forks from the main paved artery through the "neighborhood", but I never seem to have a camera with me. I got lucky the other day, though the deer was at a distance and the lighting was extreme. Each year seems to bring a new albino or piebald fawn into the area. I don't know if there's a strong genetic predisposition in the local population, but, for whatever reason, there's always a ghost or two wandering these woods. Just one more of the many charms of living here in southern Heaven.

And one of the many reasons to always keep a camera close at hand.

The Photo Bin - February 2013

It seems the shutter finger has been taking a break this month. Who could blame it? February here in the North Carolina Piedmont isn't very pretty. It has all the dreary drab of a winter that's overstaying its welcome with none of the picturesque fluffy white stuff. Dull, dull, dull.

About the only color we get this time of year is a back yard full of bluebirds and I suppose that's as good a fallback as it gets. We fledge a couple dozen each year out of the boxes around the house so there's always a handful of young ones looking for food and shelter throughout the winter. Somedays, though, it's like a family reunion. There's nothing like a half-dozen or so feathered sapphires sitting in the snags around the garden to brighten a gray day.

And we do get our occasional bluebird-sky days, most striking at sunrise. Those who have been around here a while will shake their heads at this image. More bare trees...

But it's hard not to soak them in with a view like ours. Especially since, for the first time, we had a professional come and clean the windows, inside and out. (I, as a rule, keep my skinny butt off ladders.) The result was startling and we found ourselves glued to the panes for the next few days, marveling at the clarity. Both of the shots above were taken from this southern expose. It's breathtaking.

So just three images this month. Not even any good fishing pics. You get off easy.

But there's no promises for down the road...

Hitting the Glass

I hear the thunk from two rooms away and my heart jumps to my throat. “This window here,” Mary calls from the bathtub. “He hit pretty hard.” I worry that it was too hard.

Sitting here, high on the ridge with lots of birdfeeders and lots of glass, window-rattling collisions are not uncommon. They’re mostly glancing blows, but occasionally the contact is solid and we fear the worst. In this new year I have surrendered a winter-tarnished goldfinch and a dipped-in-grape-juice house finch to their final nests, carrying them gently to the top of our ridge where they're forever surrounded by blue sky, placing their humbled husks in the depression left by a fallen oak. Back to the roots.

I seldom return dry-eyed.

The past few days we’ve been host to a swarm of pine siskins (my naturalist friend calls them an eruptive species; the term, perfect) and the envelope around the thistle feeders has been an air-traffic controller’s vision of hell. It was only a matter of time before bird met glass, at pace, and I’d be walking around outside, once again. Checking the ground.

“This window here. He hit pretty hard.”

Sure enough, under the large bathroom window, a small, unkempt wad of feathers lies in the leaves, blending into the woodland floor, but visible, nonetheless, for its awkward angles. With a sigh, I resign myself to another solemn procession up the ridge, but then feel the slightest of movements as I pick up the crumpled bundle. There's a flicker of life in the eyes, but no comprehension. Maybe there's hope.

I place the small siskin on the back woodpile, on some freshly split pieces so that I can see it easily from my desk, its tiny brown body more evident on the fresh, yellow grain than on more weathered wood, and leave it alone to recover, if it will. An hour later it's still there. Two hours, unmoved. With a heavy heart, I step outside once again and prepare for the somber climb.

It’s just a bird, you might say. Why the funk?

It’s not just the creature, you see, though there’s that too, but also the thought of being young and vibrant, riding the winds, gliding, soaring, to be dropped to the earth in the blink of an eye, by the unseen, the unexpected, the unfathomable. That strikes a little too close to home. That stabs a little too deep. For I’ve hit the glass in the past, a glancing blow, and survived. But there are those I have loved who have struck it full on. They've returned to the roots much too soon.

I reach for the bird, to carry it to its final rest, only to have it spring to life and take wing as my hand draws near.

And my heart takes wing with it.

Shoo!

There are still a few around. Young ones. We've considered pulling the feeders, sending the little buggers on their way, not wishing to keep them too late in the season. But the books say they'll go when they're ready so we continue to indulge the little rascals. If nothing else, they'll have a full tank for the long flight south.

Note: Between last Saturday when I composed this post and today's publishing, a cold front blew through. The hummers seem to have taken the cue. They're gone. Safe journeys, little guys. See you next tax day.