The nest is high in the pear tree, almost too high to photograph.
But if I stand in the right spot and hold my camera at the right angle, I catch glimpses of the nestlings. Sometimes the parents, too.
Yesterday, with the help of a tripod, I managed a few video clips.
The robin nestlings have held much of my attention recently, but a few days ago I stepped away from the nest long enough to set up a Twitter account…
Follow @raespen_
Last year marked the first appearance of June bugs (Green June Beetles) in the yard. I was delighted by their unexpected arrival, but also confused. Where did they come from? What changed in our local environment, to bring them in such numbers after over a decade of conspicuous absence?
They’re back this year, in even larger numbers. I’m happy to see them, and I’m somewhat mystified by the number of resources that call them pests. This page at the Penn State Entomology website provides a detailed list of potential damage caused by the June bugs’ grubs. Reading through the list, it seems to me that most of the effects are cosmetic.
Mounds and tunnels are one of the major complaints. For me, these small blemishes in the yard are exciting evidence of life.
This article from the University of Georgia indicates that a more serious problem may arise if the grubs’ tunnels disrupt root networks, but also says, “A small amount of green June beetle tunneling can help aerate the soil and be beneficial…”
As I was growing up, I heard over and over again how June bugs bring moles into yards, because moles eat grubs. This article from the North Carolina Cooperative Extension argues that moles are more attracted to earthworms than grubs, and, since earthworms tend to indicate a healthy lawn, moles might be considered to also indicate a healthy lawn. (I confess that I would be delighted to find a mole in our yard. More life!)
As for June bugs, the article counsels patience rather than intervention. (I should point out that the article was published in 2006, which means it may not reflect current recommendations. I couldn’t find a more recent reference regarding the connection between June bugs and moles, other than this similar article from 2007. Please comment, if you find something newer!)
Patience is not one of my foremost virtues. Fortunately, in this case no patience is required of me. I have no wish to rid the yard of June bugs. In fact, I hope they stay a bit longer. And come back next year.
Because they remind me of childhood, when summers were filled with long hours of happiness.
And because I want to keep trying for the “perfect” June bug photo…
The house wren spent weeks perfecting his nest. He added twigs until no more twigs would fit, then filled the spaces between twigs with bits of spider web and grass clippings. As he worked, he sang.
Several female wrens visited during those weeks. They hopped around the yard, inspecting all of the nest boxes and gourds, scolding the male when he got too close. The male wren reacted to these visits with a barrage of high-pitched calls, fluttering from perch to perch as he tried to lead the females to “his” nest.
Finally, one of the females decided to stay. She finished the nest over a period of three or four days, spending longer and longer inside the nest box each day.
Then I woke one morning to a furious battle. A new wren had arrived, and all three birds were fighting. By mid-morning, the new wren had driven the nesting pair away and destroyed their eggs.
The new wren visited each of the gourds and nest boxes that day, adding twigs to all of them. More than once I saw him remove twigs from the old nest and carry them to one of his new nests. He seemed particularly fond of the gourds, which the other wren had largely ignored.
I suspect the first wren was a very young male. He put all of his efforts into one nest, while most sources indicate that male wrens typically build several nests at once. He also seemed thoroughly over-excited whenever a female appeared in the yard, smothering them with enthusiasm.
By comparison, the new wren is calm and sedate. His sings less, and his song is softer. He follows females, when they appear, but does not flutter and scold as they investigate his nests. This afternoon one of the females began adding material to the old nest, and he let her work in peace. He watched, singing occasionally, but stayed out of her way.
I’m fascinated by the new wren’s behavior, which seems like a paradox to me. He arrived in a whirl of aggression, complete with egg destruction, but his activity since has been passive. What triggered his initial invasion? And will he be able to hold the nest he won?
I have not been writing.
I think about writing all the time. I plan outlines and schedules, every week, then discard them in favor of errands and yard work. I compose poem fragments in my head as I fold laundry, then move on to my next task without pausing to write them down.
For most of the last two years, I have been a writer who does not write.
I can’t claim writer’s block, because the words are there. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised by the words’ persistence. I’ve been ignoring them for a very, very long time, and they continue to clamor for attention. It’s like being under siege.
Over this past month, the words began to win. I looked at the HRW conference website two or three times. I read through the schedule. I printed the registration form.
I decided to submit a short story and poem to the free contests and spent a few days revising my entries. Then I decided to submit the first ten pages of my stalled work-in-progress for the optional critique and spent a few more days revising. Before I knew it, I had fallen into a routine. I was writing again. Every day.
My registration packet is in the mail, and I’m still writing. Every day. I don’t know if my renewed focus will last, because I went through a similar surge last year after returning home from the conference. But, for now, the words have won. I am a writer who writes.
There’s nothing unique about this photo. Another squirrel in the bird feeder.
Except…
I usually can’t identify individual squirrels in the yard, but I suspect this one is unique. It’s smaller than many of the yard’s other squirrels, and much more cautious. Understandably so.
It seldom lingers in the feeder. Rather than settling in for a feast, it inches down the post, grabs a mouthful of seed, and retreats to the wax myrtle’s overhanging branches, where it can eat in relative safety.
It also checks the far side of the fence much more frequently than our other squirrels.
The first time I saw the tail-less squirrel bounding across our yard, I suffered a moment of intense confusion. It looked more like a very thin rabbit than a squirrel. A thin rabbit with short legs and even shorter ears. But then the strange rabbit scurried up a tree trunk, and my confusion transformed into amazement.
How does a squirrel with no tail survive in the wild? How does it balance as it races through the trees? How does it communicate, and what are its chances of reproducing?
I’m tempted to ask other questions, as well, questions rooted in human perceptions of beauty and resilience. But such questions have no answers, and the world already has too many questions that can’t be answered.
Rae Spencer 