Woody in the Tree

I'm not used to seeing ducks in trees. When I was a kid, the only ducks I can remember were firmly planted on the ground as they waddled off behind the cow in the Farmland Coloring Book.  But on a foggy morning this week a drake Wood Duck perched in an old oak tree down the hill from us. Glancing from side to side and stretching his neck and tail, he looked very much at home in the limb high above the ground.  For a moment, the sun broke through the gloom and spotlighted his bright breeding colors, and then the fog closed in again, and were it not for his movement, he would almost have faded from sight.

Wood Ducks, unlike other ducks, have claws that can grip branches, and they nest large tree cavities or nesting boxes. We used to have a box nailed to a tree by the pond, but the Wood Ducks didn't come and squirrels moved in and wrecked it. Now six of the colorful ducks float the pond and we're hoping there are enough tree cavities left over from the squirrels for all of them to stay. 

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

and Saturday's Critters

Trapped!

I just wanted walk out the front door like a normal person, shake out my dust cloth, and come back in. 

A glance out the windows to the east told me that the front door wasn't a good choice.

A large Eastern Wild Turkey gobbler was strutting not far from the house.

He stepped into the sunlight, his beard and tail feathers catching the sun's first light as he pivoted slowly, 

dragging his wing feathers on the ground...

 ...every move calculated to impress the hens.

It didn't seem to be working, and he paused for a bite to eat before resuming his display. 

Little does he know how he impacts his audience behind the windows.

Turkeys have an acute sense of sight and hearing, and Don and I often find ourselves sneaking around the house in the mornings, 

even ducking below the windows to avoid their sharp eyes, and speaking in whispers when they are near the house.

Not wanting to disturb the show, I thought I might go out the back door, but to the west a chorus line was forming up. 

Their short, stubby beards identified the participants as jakes, probably just under a year old, 

but they already know the steps of this dance as if they had been practicing for years.

So basically, I was trapped indoors. 

As if that isn't enough, as of late, we can't walk down the driveway without three pair of wood ducks taking off from the pond in swift flight, 

complaining loudly about the disruption. 

They've been here for a little over a week, and we hope one of the pairs, at least, will nest here.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not looking for sympathy here. 

The turkeys tend to make their way slowly around the house, walking in and out of the woods, so I'll make my break when they're out of sight. 

If I've learned anything during my time in the Ozarks, it's this: 

being trapped isn't all bad, and the dust cloth can wait.


Linking with Saturday's Critters
and Wild Bird Wednesday

Dad and the Acacia Tree

Where I grew up in rural Northern California, the 4 seasons were not sharply defined like they are here in the Ozarks. Most of the trees were evergreens, predominately redwoods, which didn't have noticeable seasonal changes; our seasons were defined more subtly. Summer was squealing with shock as we dipped into the frigid Smith River, and riding Larry Johnson's donkey, Joe. In the evenings, after dinner, we'd play softball with friends from the neighborhood, disbanding reluctantly at dusk when we could scarcely see home plate. Fall would begin with a familiar knot in my stomach at the loss of freedom. Then, I'd settle into the routine of math competitions and science projects, and history class with the handsome Mr. Vernon. But there was always something magical about spring.

Spring was riding my bike to the beach down Moorehead Road, past the fields of cows and the handmade sign, For Sale - Red Wriggler Fish worms. Spring was the hum of bees, the fragrance of wildflowers on the wind, and the feeling that things were all right with the world.

In my world, spring was also defined by the acacia tree. My family lived in the parsonage behind the only church in town. In the front yard of the church was a vast acacia tree. It was a perfect tree for climbing, its massive limbs reaching so low that all but the very youngest of us could manage to scramble up and perch there after church. The limbs were covered with tiny holes, which at the time, I thought was characteristic of acacia trees but have since realized was the work of woodpeckers. This may have indicated something about the health of the tree. Whatever its condition, it always managed to put on a grand display in the spring when its tiny blossoms, like miniature yellow tennis balls, covered the tree, garnering the attention of everyone in town. 

My father, besides being the pastor, also acted as a groundskeeper. When he determined the tree was no longer safe, without any notice, he cut it down, an act that managed to anger a good part of the congregation and much of the community. Dad was never too concerned about public opinion. He may have seemed impulsive at times, but he had probably been thinking about that tree for a long time. Dad didn't want to get into an extensive discussion about it or have a committee formed to study the implications of such an action. He certainly didn't want to see any children get hurt.

One way or another, people managed to get over the loss, and nobody could stay mad at Dad for long. He was just too fun to be around. His laughter would fill a room like the aroma of mom's Sunday pot roast.

After all these years, I've decided that besides keeping the church kids safe, my father did us all a favor by cutting that old acacia tree down. He reminded us that nothing here on earth, not even things of exquisite beauty, are permanent. Centuries ago, the prophet Isaiah said it best:

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

because the breath of the Lord blows on them.

Surely the people are grass.

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

but the word of our God endures forever.

Isaiah 40:7, 8

In a world of falling blossoms, 

it's good to know that the God who endures is the One who loves us deeply, who sent His only Son so we can live.

And this is the testimony:

God has given us eternal life,

and this life is in His Son.

1 John 5:11

First published on March 20, 2011

Linking with Saturday's Critters

 

Whispers of Spring

After basking in the glow of the fireplace, 

winter has kicked off its slippers and cracked open the window to spring.

The ancient yellow daffodils are up a good 5 inches and there's new fuzz on the lamb's ears.

A few of the lilac buds have swollen and burst.

Inside their small purple packages, along with their bottled-up fragrance, is the promise of beauty and nectar.

From the pond, we hear spring peepers singing, and late at night, under the stars, coyotes join the chorus with their love songs.

Barley takes note, and is happy to curl up safe inside for the night.

Autumn arrives in the early morning,

but spring at the close of a winter day.

Elizabeth Bowden

First published on February 20, 2012

Linking with Saturday's Critters