Tag: nature

Green Days

Rainy days ruined barbecue plans for the holiday weekend but brought on an explosion of green. We needed that rain. From my windows, gaps of space that only a week ago framed a glimpse of houses and yards have filled with fresh shades of green. The leaves have fully emerged. Driving the winding roads in morning rain, where before I could look through the woods at tree trunks and rocks, I now see only green. 

I savored the long spring we experienced this year after the long, tough winter in the Northeast. Cherry, dogwood and other blossoms hung on much longer than without the quick, almost overnight thermostat rise we have become accustomed to in recent years. For us gardeners, when to plant tenders like tomato plants became a gamble. During one odd hot day I did the seasonal switch of clothes and curtains, turning my cozy living room into a lighter, airier space. Then the temperatures dropped again and I was digging out my too hastily packed sweaters. This past cold rainy weekend I thought hard about throwing the last of the firewood on my porch into the cleaned out woodstove. I resisted, instead, using blankets while I watched television. 

The rains have left and the sun is shining and summer has moved in. I’ve mowed the lawn twice so far and the hedge is already growing wild. The first of the peonies grace my table.

I love this time of year. My whole body relaxes, even though my chores have increased. Besides the lawn to mow, the hedge to clip, there are an abundance of weeds to pull. Summer furniture to retrieve from the garage. While I write this inside, soon, most of my life will be lived outside – puttering in the garden or sitting on the back or front porch. 

I have a good life. I am cognizant that the number of green springs I will get to see is not infinite and because of my age, almost countable. Maybe 20? That’s if I’m lucky. And I mean that from both sides. I’m not interested in living forever and 87 sounds like more than enough to me right about now. Thus, the greening of spring is glorious to watch. The softening of branches of a wood where all winter long there have only been angles and earth colors. Then comes the rains followed by heat, blue sky and sun and SHAZAM! like magic – summer greens are dense. And comforting – like being enveloped in a fertile embrace. 

I check my gardens regularly for new sprouts. At home I have planted flower seeds in dirt patches hoping they’re not appealing to my resident rabbits, squirrels and at least one – likely more, voracious groundhog. In my community garden plot up on the hill in the city I live in, I planted leeks between the autumn sowed garlic. I separated the tiny strands clustered together in a clump in a small pot, and carefully placed each one in a deep hole I’d dug between the garlic stalks. And then I watered them. One doesn’t fill the holes with dirt following planting, you just let the dirt find its way around each shoot as you water. 

Another plot is full of lettuce I planted in early April while the days were still bitter. I can see the welcoming splotches of green as I trudge across the field to my plot. I’ll pick some leaves for a salad later, maybe some to share with friends. And so this season of bountiful green begins.

Still Time – A Beach Sunset

5:30 PM at the beach. There is a small sailboat hugging the distant shore. It’s going out while most boats head back in under a cloudy sky on this late Saturday afternoon. A patch of sea grass is all I can see of the sandbar where I kayak to. The tide is moving out and in a few hours, I know the sandy spit will emerge again.

I am sitting on a beach chair. I rarely do this – sit in a spot on this beach alone – at least not on a chair I’ve brought with the intention to sit. I usually come to kayak or walk, never just to sit. When I walk, I will pause and look out at the water, pick up a stone or shell I drop after a few steps. Today I am on a patch of sand where people regularly sit – often the same people in the same spots. They set up their chairs to read and roast in the sun away from lifeguards and families. It’s not a place to swim as sea grass blocks access to the water. 

A string of small waves is rolling in caused by the speeding motorboats heading home. Perhaps these boaters are hungry for dinner after a day spent on the water. This is what I imagine. Otherwise, the water is calm and I think about kayaking. It’s tempting. My kayak is on the nearby rack and my paddle and life jacket are in the car. I love being on the water although I’m a lazy paddler. I don’t go far. Mostly just to that sandbar not currently visible. It should emerge in another few hours, a small stretch of sand where the oystercatchers hang out. I like to sit and swim there.  

I took a walk before setting out my chair. I walk at this beach often.There are many serious walkers intent on achieving their steps. I am a little like that but I also come here to dream and stare at the horizon and take deep breaths. Before sitting, I walked past where my kayak sits on a rack, then out onto the pier where fishermen lean with their rods and beers. I usually stop for a few minutes at the end of the pier to look down at the water and out at the stretch of Long Island blocking the Atlantic. 

I pass the playground. I spent countless hours here watching my daughter climb the ropes, the slides and the wooden boat replica with bells to ring and a wheel to turn. She’s 30 now and lives across the country. I walk through the tree-lined path where we once celebrated her birthday with her middle school pals. Rob and I cooked on the crusty grill there.The kids wandered off down the beach away from us chaperones. Molly remembers it as one of her best birthday parties and we did nothing but cook hot dogs and hamburgers and let them be wild. 

I walked across the beach to be closer to the water lapping the shore. I come across multiple horseshoe crab carcasses upside down – legs up and still. I flip them over to make sure they’re dead. One afternoon I walked this shoreline and came upon over a dozen of these prehistoric looking creatures upside down with legs flailing. I flipped them over as I went along and watched as they moved their armored bodies back into the waves. Today, none of them moved.

The sun is breaking through a schmear of clouds. The sky below, a lemony yellow, readying for sunset. The days are shorter. While today had the warmth of a summer day, the sense of autumn prevails. I can see it in the light, the quality of the air. There’s always a poignancy to the season changes, isn’t there? I love summer and don’t like being cold but I am sure if I lived in a warmer climate I would miss these changes I have lived with all my life. I am happy to visit my daughter in California during winter to get my fix of humming birds and year-round flowers. But there’s something that balances me in these changes in light, leaves, temperature – the temporary freezing of the earth. I take none of it for granted anymore and feel challenged to meet the seasons. Even in winter I come here to this shoreline, bundled up against the winds to follow the tides and sunsets through the season.

Just beyond a small boat house is an event space and I can hear the sounds of a wedding and the couple, Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, being introduced. Now, as if on cue from my thoughts, a guitar/vocalist begins to sing a Carole King song: Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall – all you’ve got to do is call and I’ll be there. 

I look out at the water. There’s a kayaker next to the grass near my still submerged sandbar. They are not paddling, just floating. Like I do. Hypnotized by the movement of the grass, I relax as the boat lifts and lowers, rocking gently. I cannot see from here but I imagine the kayaker doing what I do: I let my hands fall alongside the boat and into the water, still warm from summer. Are they letting the tide bring them back to shore? I watch and see they are drifting, pushed away from the gently waving grasses of our sandbar. Not paddling. I recognize the sweetness of giving it over to nature, waiting until the last moments of the sun’s light before returning to shore.There is still time.

Nature. And Not Nature.

I was watering the garden on a recent morning, staring out into space with hose in hand. From the corner of my eye I registered my neighbor’s dog moving around their yard. I was looking through the picket fence that divides our property so I saw only bits of his golden coat between the slats. I wondered why he wasn’t barking at me like he usually does. He’s a good size dog. I went back to aiming the hose at the garden.

When I glanced up again, a small set of antlers was floating over the top of the fence. Just little horns. And then he lifted his head, looked over at me with minimal interest before jumping the fence into my yard. It was he who I’d seen — not a dog.

Young buck stepped across the wood chips under the peach trees, nibbling at the weeds before leisurely continuing on to the side of my house. I dashed inside, grabbed my phone and quietly went out the front door, hoping to capture a photo or video. I know deer are common in many neighborhoods around here but not in my fairly urban one so this encounter felt magical.

Creatures have been showing up in my yard a lot this summer. Another recent day, while washing my dishes and gazing out the window over the sink, I saw a good size coyote saunter through the side yard. A little alarming but all are welcome. Especially now that I don’t have a little dog to worry about.

The regulars are also still here including an abundance of chipmunks and squirrels and of course, birds. And the groundhog. I say ‘the’ because this year I have only seen one. And it is not the one I remember from last year. Likely, there isn’t just one but I pretend there’s one so I don’t feel overwhelmed. But truth is, there are holes galore around here and that makes me think there are groundhogs-galore too. 

There are rabbits. More of them than groundhogs, I’m sure. I’m fond of bunnies, especially when they are babies. This year the little ones seem particularly fearless, continuing to nibble the grass even as they see me approach. That’s what happened a few days ago when I went out to pick some zinnias. I greeted the little guy: “Hello, little bunny! You’re quite the brave one, aren’t you?” I unhooked the gate to the rickety fence of the garden where the zinnias are.

(A sibling?)

As I bent over to snip my flowers, a whoosh-whoosh caused me to turn. Flying away was a bird of prey – one with feather leggings and a very large wing span. It had swooped in just behind me, only a few feet away. Yes: brave bunny had been spotted and snatched. Little squeaks faded into the distance as the massive bird flew across the rooftops with its meal.

I stood in shock, zinnias in hand, I searched the lawn but I knew it was gone. I was heartbroken. Yet this is nature. I know that. And I love birds of prey – not just little bunnies. (I only wish it had taken a chipmunk or squirrel. Is that terrible?) Surely bunny’s mother would be looking for it? 

Can you imagine? Someone just swooping in and taking your loved one as they’re going about their business? This is what predators do. This is what’s happening now, every day to (mostly brown people) in our community. The hawks’ behavior makes sense. What these masked thugs are obediently doing does not make sense. Not to me.

I will never forget nor forgive the evil of what is being done to our neighbors, our brothers and sisters. I hope you feel the same. We must support and protect each other. Suggestions welcome.

Early Morning After a Summer Storm

The rain blew in at night with fierce winds, dramatic thunder and lightning. It moved through fast but enough rain fell meaning no need to water the garden. Last night, after a particularly violent gust, I heard a noise and peered out every window looking for downed branches or toppled furniture but saw nothing. This morning, while the kettle boils for my tea, I walk the yard to look for damage. I see that the garage door popped open. Maybe that was the noise I heard. I’ve been lazy, keeping it closed by laying the weight of a rock against the door rather than wrestle with the ancient lock from inside. There’s not much to steal in there but still, I’ll make more of an effort now.

Around the back of the house, a potted fern has toppled. I set it right. The air is cool. The oppressive heat and humidity of recent days has lifted. I see my neighbor Ken through the fence. He is sweeping up the water from around the kids’ play area. I’m fond of this young family. I call out a greeting and we chat. He tells me the electricity went out for about 10 minutes. Mine did not. Their house is a little higher up and must be on a different line, he says. I promise that later, I’ll retrieve and toss back the ball that landed in my weedy yard. He’s taken to sending me photos of my garden with circles drawn around where the most recent ball has landed. These make me laugh. They are welcome to walk through the gate and retrieve it but it’s better I do it since it entails ducking under low-lying peach and pear branches through ankle high plants. I’ll put on boots and spray for ticks. 

I go back inside and make my tea and rather than my usual ritual of going back upstairs to sit on my bed and read and write, I go back out on the porch. I straighten the cushions and hang the plants back up from where I put them on the ground last night to catch the rain. The sun is low enough that it’s still shady on the glider where I sit to watch the morning and drink my tea. A slight breeze is blowing and feels delicious on my bare arms and legs. A firefly moves across the porch, slowly floating mid-air like a lazy helicopter. Almost daily, I find one around my kitchen sink, seemingly lost. I scoop them up and move them outside. Maybe this is one of those kitchen-displaced bugs, lurking from days ago. I wonder — isn’t it time for them to sleep and recharge so they can glow later? 

I look up at the branches of the Norway maples. A group of four remain as my only shade in the front yard. I miss the oak tree cut down a few months ago because it was dying. The house feels naked now, fully exposed to the full morning light.The stump and logs rest in the corner of the yard waiting for my missing handy man to come with his splitter. I make a mental note to text him again. A few birds are flitting between branches overhead and I shield my eyes from the sun to try and get a better look at them. I think they are likely Robins, perhaps the ones born on my porch only weeks ago.

While I’m gazing up at the branches I notice that the leaves on these trees are sparser and smaller than usual this year. I worry, are these trees dying too? The leaves on the Mulberry tree growing next to the garage are also less dense this year although the berries are abundant. Are my trees also mourning the missing oak? Swallowing the last of my tea I think yes — they yearn for and miss their yard companion of decades. I know a little about this yearning but I trust they, like I, will carry on and bloom brilliantly again for years to come. Now they are mourning and I understand as I too still search for shade no longer there.

Sounds Like Bombs to Me

I’m not a fan of fireworks. I prefer to see the tiny explosions of fireflies lighting up as they dance across my yard. I love the quiet drama of a sunset, purple and orange streaks exploding across the sky. For the thrill of big noise, I’ll take a sometimes terrifying summer thunderstorm. Nature is the boss and her destruction intense –  but she does not intentionally target populations like man does with bombs that, by the way, sound just like fireworks. 

It’s almost 9 PM and I’m on my porch catching the last of this stunning day that was July 4. And boom – the first explosion in the neighborhood is off. Now a smattering of smaller machine gun sounding explosions. For anyone who has heard the real thing – this sucks. I had it easy. I was getting paid to be in a war zone and was able to take breaks and be in Italy or Austria ordering good wine and cappuccinos within hours. I knew people who could not leave, who didn’t want to leave their homes. To become refugees. So they did their best to protect themselves and family while bombs fell. They ventured into the street to get water, food, firewood, running on streets where they knew snipers hid in burnt out buildings ready to arbitrarily shoot them in some sick game. And this was a pre-drone time. I can only imagine how terrifying things are now. I don’t want to imagine either – but here I am – imagining. 

Because I remember these sounds I hear from my front porch – as mortar shells exploding in Bosnia and Croatia. Once on the drive up into the mountains above Sarajevo for a meeting with a braggadocious man (now living in the Hague for war crimes) a tank fired off into the city. Our car was heavy and armored but the force of the explosion lifted the SUV. We made the rest of the drive silently, deafened and wondering about who and what was hit this time. How many injured, how many dead?

Don’t get me wrong – I once enjoyed watching the sky lit by exploding flowers and falling stars shot off on a barge in the distance. I have oohed and ahhed and enjoyed the festive atmosphere of a fireworks display. They are beautiful. But from my porch on a summer night it feels ominous and I think about war.

Sorry to be a downer but that’s my take. And besides, fireworks, especially uncontrolled neighborhood pyrotechnic displays are terrible for wildlife, little kids and pets.  

There’s a brilliant organization around here (https://wildlifeincrisis.org/ ) that rehab every kind of critter. They’ve reported an increase in injured animals being brought in because of fireworks. And the internet is full of people looking for pets that ran off in terror. Our long gone Cairn Terrier Tetley hated them.

Here’s to sparklers!

Peace!

A Robin’s Nest – and my bout of NIMBY

A robin built a nest on my front porch and I’m not thrilled. I know, I know! I feed the birds all winter, keep the bird bath clean and full and yet here I am getting all NIMBY when it comes to sharing my space. I was thrilled to see a local osprey fly off with one of the branches I’d collected from my recently downed oak tree imagining it’s new life as baby bird home. But when my feathered friend chooses my sweet porch to build in, well, I wasn’t happy. A little too close? What kind of hypocrisy is this? I have reflected on and chastised myself for this poor attitude. I don’t offer the following as a defense, simply an explanation.

With the warmer days, I get to expand my living space outside and I’ve been busy cleaning up. The front porch is my favorite spot to drink my tea in the morning, ponder the yard and life. And now, I feel thwarted. I had my chance and confess, I considered removing the nest when I saw the beginnings of grass stuck in the corner space right above the pillar next to where my laundry line begins. I really thought about it.

Momma Robin won. I did not touch the nest. This morning I watched her fly back and forth, beak full of damp leaves or wads of earth and now bits of dropped flotsam litter the area. After depositing her load into the nest, she hops in, shimmying down with a fluff of feathers to make sure it’s just right. Within a few days she’s woven the messy strands of straw into a formidable little home.

Don’t get me wrong – I love birds and respect a nest. I’ll skip whole sections when pruning my privet hedge at the slightest suspicion there’s someone nesting. When cardinals settled in to raise their babies in between the branches of a rose against the breezeway windows, we tiptoed passed for weeks. But this spot is my Grand Central. I am always in and out and live out here as soon as the weather warms. I hang my laundry off the line at least once a week.

I’m not sure how to navigate now. Do I not use the porch? I want her to feel safe and comfortable raising her babies here. I’ll have to figure it out and so will momma Robin. She still takes off when she sees me in the window. So now I’m a little worried I didn’t make her feel welcome.

I looked it up – incubation period is about 2 weeks and another 2 for the babies to move out. Did you know that most bird nests are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA)? Don’t tell our current administration about this though – God forbid that any vulnerable living thing be protected. That law will go the way of all the other protective legislature if the emperor gets wind of it.

What an opportunity to recognize and work on myself. I left the nest alone. I obeyed the good law. I’ll love my neighbor. Now I’ll settle in do my best to practice this lesson on living my life with integrity from the best teacher ever: nature.

Support our National Parks.

https://ourparks.org/

Pruning Fruit Trees and Intent

Peach and pear trees in New England should be pruned in late winter while still dormant. The trouble with this schedule is I am also still hibernating. However, I recently managed to brave the cold and tackle my 2 pear and 2 peach trees. I waited until most of the snow melted to avoid injury. Other than the odd branch poking me in the face, I came away unscathed.

Even after giving away cut branches to other hopeful souls willing to gamble on blossoms emerging from sticks, plenty remained. The wattle fence from last year turned out to look a bit ragged but was useful and effective, not only in preventing visitors from stepping off the front deck onto dangerously wobbly steps, but also providing me with kindling all winter. I just burned the last of it and have prepared the new branches to create another natural barrier. Hopefully this one will be pretty as well as practical.

Still to be cut are a few higher branches that require a ladder to get to. Last year it crossed my mind that I’m getting too old to be climbing my trees. This year I intended to enlist a pal to stand by in case I fell while swinging my handy little electric saw around. But who has time for that? I felt safe and stopped at the first glimmer of self-doubt or weariness. I’m stubborn but careful. I did wait for the snow to melt, after all.

I wrote about pruning and making my wattle fence last year (click underlined link above to read) and maybe I will again next year. Maybe the trees and I will both be around. This is a wish and a hope. I think it’s important to send hope out to the universe while also nurturing it in our own hearts.

Pruning is a kind of hope and commitment towards the future. Otherwise everything goes to shit. Cutting off what’s not needed requires attention and care and can’t be done willy-nilly. I’m hanging on to that. Sometimes I feel the darkness encroaching so I look for light. Sometimes that means forcing myself out in the cold to trim my trees.

Amazingly, as hard as last year’s cuts were, more branches grew back even longer. I have 7 foot pieces in my pile. Last year I wrote: “I know that these harsh cuts were necessary if the trees are to thrive.” While true, that sentence now makes me a little uncomfortable. We hear some version of this from the liars as they gut our government. One difference: we don’t hear the word ‘thrive’. They are not interested in us thriving or in some cases, even surviving. These guys are in it only for themselves. They are not doing this for you or me. We are the serfs.

I recognize the importance of cutting back. I am all for getting rid of waste, increasing efficiency and finding fraud but skill and best intentions are required for making cuts. Fraudsters should not be doing that job. These are nefarious men driving us deeper into debt as a country and individuals as they scheme and get richer and richer. It’s obscene. We’d get rid of the deficit and pay for health care, education – basic human rights – if these same creeps would pay even just their fair share of taxes. Nope. That’s not in the cards. We need a new deck of our own.

We cannot give up hope, nor stop speaking up. Make sure your representatives are really representing you and let them know if you think they’re not. It gets easier to make calls and the young people answering the phones are great.

I suggest signing up for daily emails from the link below. Craven is a very smart activist who suggests different simple acts of resistance. It took me less than 5 minutes to make calls working off easy scripts provided in this beautifully titled site: chopwoodcarrywaterdailyactions@substack.com

By the way – the peaches and pears mostly get eaten by the wildlife. It’s nature’s way and there is enough to go around – we need to share.

Keep the faith, make the calls and don’t lose sight of your joy!

Wonders

Canyon Country

My Tasmanian handyman recently told me while fixing a leak in my basement that the ‘on’ position for light switches in Australia, is down. To turn ‘off’ the switch goes up. Completely opposite to here. Also, water swirls in the opposite direction when going down the drain.

Yesterday I flew from NYC to Los Angeles to visit my daughter and woke at 3 AM California time — 6 AM in the morning at home in Connecticut – thinking about this stuff. I lay wide awake pondering time, distance and space. I’ve just retired after a lifetime of working – thus, have the leisure to wonder at existence. Of course I know about the differences in hemispheres (although the switch tidbit was new to me!) but it’s been awhile since I’ve focused on how amazing and profound it all is. Flying across the country helped launch me further into this state.

The day of my departure from Connecticut, I left my warm bed at 4:45 in the morning to catch an early morning flight. Within hours after take-off, I was peering down at the wide and empty plains of Missouri, then the Colorado Rockies, the Painted Desert, the Grand and many other fine canyons until reaching the Pacific. I always opt for a window seat. On this flight I noted that few other passengers cracked open the plastic shutter, apparently preferring the darkened airplane cabin to the views outside. I thought about but resisted inviting the sleeping young woman next to me to gawk at the amazing landscape below. I suspect she wouldn’t be interested.

Luckily, my daughter is susceptible to my enthusiasm. Molly also marvels at the world. Last night, walking through a grocery store parking lot she pointed out planets in the darkening sky. Turns out there were no stars to be seen but shining away, above us and brightest of all was the planet of love: Venus. We hooked arms and peered up at the sky together.

Today marks a full week of no longer working. I pinch myself, free to feel and wonder unencumbered by demands on my time, free to move through space, be awed by magnificent landscapes and the flutter of a hummingbird zipping by. (thank you California!) Free to think about my friends and family around the world, perhaps sleeping as I’m awake, easing into summer as we in the north, hunker down for dark cold days.

Maybe I will read more about the science of earth shifts but for now, it’s the being part that interests me. I am here, now in the present and that’s just a fact – for every second there is. It’s as if, after years of focusing on day to day routine of my life as an employee, that I’ve been freed to dust off and switch my lens from macro to wide angle. I try to fathom and catch up to the miracles of this spinning world. Billions of us beings, breathing, hearts beating, simultaneously. New hearts emerge as others exit in every corner of the earth. It’s all a marvel!

An October Saturday Report

Chickadee Breakfast

Wrens, sparrows, robins, blue jays and the rest of the gang stopped by all summer to splash in the bird bath but for the first time since spring, I’ve starting filling the bird feeder again. For months, there’s been no shortage of berries and bugs for them to eat but now that cold weather is creeping back on us, I want to them to know I’ll be here for them.

Saturday was a glorious warm October day and I spent time sitting on the front porch watching the feeder action and soaking in the sun. A few squirrels foraged for seeds in the fallen leaves with the mourning doves, who prefer the ground for eating – their unwieldy bodies challenged by my vertical feeder. A blue jay noisily announced it’s arrival before gorging on sunflower seeds. Nuthatches and chickadees skittered about joining in with lots of peeping, other jays squawking and squirrels chattering – when they all suddenly quieted. After the audible mass flutter of wings as everyone took off, the yard was silent. There must be a bird of prey around, I thought and briefly looked up at the sky and through the branches. No sign of anything. I returned to staring at my phone and drinking my tea. Whoosh! On the lounge chair a few feet away from me, landed a gorgeous and very large hawk – facing me – both of us wide eyed.

We gazed at each other in shock before it took off with a few flaps across the yard. No hunting in this neighborhood, at least for now! The moment was thrilling and I’m glad none of my feeder-friends became lunch. And what a fantastic cooperative security system they have!

Sound and Seagrass

Around 3, I took the kayak out for what might end up being the last paddle of the season. The sun, still deliciously hot, warmed the wind that made paddling tough but caused no chill. While the water looked relatively calm on the surface, the current was pushing me in directions I didn’t intend so I abandoned my intent to go straight across to the island about 20 minutes away. Instead I lingered near the sandbar that disappears at high tide. I floated, listening to the wind rustle through the sea grass. That was enough.

Bird Report

The birds are up early these days and on a recent morning, so was I. At least long enough to open my Cornell Merlin app to identify who was trilling away at 4:30 AM. (Robin.) I easily identified a Crow-cawing in the distance. These days there have been an abundance of Crows and sometimes Ravens flapping and gabbing dramatically around the neighborhood. They seem to like the dead trees and look particularly fantastic high up on the bare branches. Ravens are larger than Crows and have a different pitch to their song – if you can call the noise they make a song. One expert describes both birds as having complicated lives and I translate that to mean interesting and welcome them and all feathered creatures. Cats sometimes wander through my yard on hunting sprees and I tell them that they can go after the rodents (chipmunks don’t seem as cute as they used to) but please leave the birds alone.

I don’t judge the eating habits of the natural world as us humans have nothing to brag about. Still, it made me sad to find a swirled cushion of grass on my lawn. As I got closer, I saw the nest wreckage of blue eggshells nearby. I doubt these were hatched. There’d recently been lots of Robin screeching and wing flapping drama as momma and poppa Robin fended off a Blue Jay. Either the same Jay or a Crow or some other culprit ultimately succeeded in breaching their defense.

More joyously, a few weeks ago I was standing on my porch surveying my estate (haha!) with a cup of coffee in hand, when a huge bird flapped low across the yard directly in front of me clutching a snake in very large talons. I stepped off the porch to follow this massive bird and… wait — does it have a white head? It landed on a high branch in a neighbor’s tree and I saw clearly – it was an American Eagle! Gobsmacked, I walked closer but it took no notice of me at all and seemed only mildly annoyed with the Crows squawking and circling madly above. Did they want the snake? Was it territory they were defending?

I knew that there were Eagles around these past few years but had yet to see one in the wild. And here it was! Regally, as if showing off for me, it let me admire its perfect profile. Twice it let out a high pitched, gull sounding-screech in answer to the harassment of the crows. I whispered my exclamations to nobody. (I can still conjure the thrill!) I have no pictures – not wanting to miss a moments sight of this beauty to retrieve my phone from the porch.

I’m currently on my porch on this overcast Sunday afternoon. A teeny song Wren briefly stopped by to sit so close I might have touched it. House Sparrows boisterously tweet from some nook I can’t spot and a pair of sweet Cardinals are silently popping in and out of the hedge. I can hear a Mourning Dove sounding lazy and sweet. My app notes a Gray Catbird – one of my favorites – but there’s no sign of it. Catbirds, like Blue Jays are fantastic mimics. According to my app just now I was listening to an Osprey and then a Hawk – but the app was fooled by Mr. Blue Jay trying to impress us or scare the smaller birds. Or just for fun? Are they mean? The rich lives lived in the leafy summer branches of my trees is mostly invisible to me but I listen to them. I don’t feed them much in the summer, but every day I fill the bird bath and I think they love me for it although not as much as I love them.

Happy Summer!

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