Today is one of those days. An achy, sleepy, over-tired day of necessary errands and unnecessary complications. An unoriginal day, tiresomely mundane. Unread books murmur from every shelf, unfinished taxes whisper anxiety, and unwalked trails sing a muddy siren song that I have no time to heed.
It’s a day to cover my ears, charge the camera’s batteries, and visit the archives. Here’s a photo from May 2010, one of my all-time favorites.
Yesterday afternoon this hawk killed a robin in my back yard. I don’t know if he is the same hawk as the one that killed our baby rabbit, but I have my suspicions. This time, instead of flying away with his prize, he stayed in the rose bed. He ate for nearly a half-hour, even gulped down the bones before he left.
This is only the second time I’ve seen a hawk in my yard, while robins are a constant presence. I’m torn between awe and sorrow, between the stunning beauty of my visitor and the sad spectacle of orange feathers strewn in the grass.
I don’t know if this is a young Cooper’s Hawk or a Sharp-shinned Hawk. Maybe neither? What do you think?
One of the first purchases we made, after moving into our house, was a nest box for the back yard. Much to my disappointment, summer after summer passed with no nests. Then I ran across an article (I can’t remember where) that said birds prefer nest boxes positioned so the entrance faces north. With nothing to lose, we moved our unused nest box. Immediate success.
A pair of chickadees!
I spent many happy hours watching them stuff the nest box with pear petals and moss. But something went wrong and the nest failed. Later, when we cleaned the box, two tiny unhatched eggs made me want to cry.
In subsequent springs, we’ve watched more chickadees build more nests in the box, and all have failed. Only once did we know why. Bumblebees.
Now I’m tempted to take down our nest box, as it seems a source of great disappointment for both the birds and myself. But I suppose the bees need a place to nest, too. Maybe I’ll leave it one more year…
I do not consider myself a true birdwatcher, as I seldom venture outdoors with the express purpose of finding birds. I’m more of an opportunistic birdwatcher, always happy when my path leads to a bird, but equally happy to run across a snail or squirrel or vine in bloom.
After acquiring a camera capable of photographing birds (and squirrels and snails and vines in bloom), I quickly accumulated an awkward catch-all folder of “Unknown Bird” photos. This method of cataloguing my photos soon proved impossible to manage. Now, with the help of field guides and online resources, the Unknown Birds folder has dwindled to a minor subset of my bird files.
I’m grateful for the urge to name what I photograph, because I’ve learned about Pied-billed Grebes and Yellow-rumped Warblers, Pine Warblers and Northern Flickers. And I want to keep learning, which perhaps makes me a birdwatcher after all.
Early last year, while walking at First Landing State Park, I noticed a small flock of chickadees foraging alongside a pair of downy woodpeckers. The chickadees seemed like amateurs in such practiced company, but all of the birds appeared to enjoy success.
It was the first time I had seen chickadees exhibit this particular foraging technique, and the already beautiful day brightened. The euphoria of my new knowledge followed me home. It lingered for days, sending me back to the Park for another walk much sooner than I might otherwise have gone.
I was able to capture a few seconds with my camera, a fleeting glimpse that words alone would never convey. I find this difficult to admit, as I love words and am reluctant to acknowledge their limits. I find it even more difficult to accept that the moment can never be reproduced or shared in full. How unfair, that time and space conspire to render memory so singular and personal.
