Neighborhood Watch

There's something magical about a summer evening when the heat of the day has disappated. Fireflies leave their grassy daytime perches and rise over the ground like twinkling, slow motion pop corn.

Foxes normally work the night shift, but on these long summer days, sometimes we see them before full dark. A mother fox came by in the late hours of the daylight this week, walking the perimeter of the woods, in and out of the fading sunlight, with the confidence of one who was on familiar territory.

Most likely, she was hunting for an unwary bunny, mouse or squirrel. 

She glanced over her shoulder, ever watchful in her role as preditor, and as prey. The light had faded, and she welcomed the gathering darkness.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Stalking the Grasshopper

A more attentive animal mother than this fox I saw recently would be hard to imagine.

She watches over her kits intently, and when she is done training them, they will be efficient hunters.

Even now, this fox kit is small, but in his heart, he's a lion, lurking in the clover...

...stalking the grasshopper.

"Well done, my little one."


Linking with Saturday's Critters

Little Foxes

On the edges of the day we occasionally see foxes, usually one at a time, and briefly, before they melt back into the forest. 

I've always associated foxes with the wild, but, as I learned recently, they're pretty adaptable.

My neighbor called the other day to tell me that they had a fox den with four young kits under their back porch

and asked if I'd like to come over and take pictures.

Does an ant like to go to a picnic?

When I arrived, the mother fox was in the open, and her four kits emerged shortly after. 

The first one came out cautiously, peering up over the edge of the porch, and the others followed, tumbling over each other to get outside.

They played much like puppies, chasing their tails, running and fighting and rolling in the grass.

Even on their second day out, they were little hunters. When the fireflies lit their lanterns, a kit jumped up and caught one. 

There were licking baths from Mom, which were not aways appreciated...

...and plenty of kisses, which were.

So far, the kits stay in their dens for most of the day, appearing in the late afternoon when their mother comes. 

All that play can tire a young kit out, and when it was nap time, they piled back into their den. 

Their mother retreated a short distance and watched attentively from behind an old bench, then curled up for a nap herself. 

All of that play supervision can be tiring, too.

I don't know what the kits dream of when they sleep the day away, 

but when my head hits the pillow tonight, 

I have a feeling I'll be dreaming of little foxes catching fireflies and playing under the stars.

There will be more pictures in the near future. 

I hope you'll be back to see them.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Once in a Lifetime

Last week's rains were all but forgotten yesterday, with the air fresh and clear, the sky the color of a robin's egg, and a palette of greens overspreading the landscape. I found it impossible to stay indoors, so I called my friend, DiAnn, and we arranged to go for a walk near her home. Her neighborhood is quiet, with scattered houses and scant traffic, which, today, was a good thing.

DiAnn had just told me about her neighbors who feed the deer every day, when a rustling sound from the side of the road caught my attention. A tiny newborn fawn was there, moving slowly toward us on wobbly legs. I bent down and extended my hand, as I would for a dog, and the thin little creature came haltingly and sniffed my fingers. I think the fawn was too young for fear to guide its actions. Apparently, I wasn't the one it was looking for, because it moved slowly on into the road. 

Neither DiAnn nor I had a camera with us, so she volunteered to run home for the cameras (hers at her house and mine in my car) while I kept track of the fawn. I watched as it crossed the road and entered the woods. It made its way a few yards into the woods and laid down beside a small log.

Some might surmise that the fawn was lost, but it is natural for a doe to leave a newborn while she browses. Most often, the fawn will stay in place until the doe returns. Newborns have no scent, which gives them a certain protection against predators. 

DiAnn returned in her golf cart with our cameras, and I made my way, as quietly as I could over the dry leaves, to the place I had last seen the fawn. Sure enough, it was resting there, tucked into a ball, waiting for its Mother.

Any contact with a wild creature is amazing, but being so close to this small, vulnerable newborn melted our hearts. This may, quite likely, have been a once-in-a-lifetime encounter. For all three of us.

Maybe God gives us moments like this as gifts to remind us of His love and His care for all of creation. But in this place we call home, wonders are not limited to the once-in-a-lifetime variety. At various times of the year, we can see the Milky Way spilling across the sky, or watch snow pile into a white blanket. We can listen to a Mockingbird imitating the music around it, taste fresh clear water, touch a Wooly caterpillar, or smell the scent of wild spearmint, activated by our footsteps. 

And so, from this place in the universe, for one tiny fawn, and for everyday wonders, I lift my heart in thanks.

In His hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.

Job 10:12

For another fawn story, click here.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Generation Z

This week, the newest generation of Eastern chipmunks have emerged from their dens, 

and they are discovering a bright and beautiful world.

From the time they are very small, they seem ready to work, eagerly digging on the patch of ground they call home...

...until they have replaced the green decor (so '80's) with some good Ozark dirt.

After all that redecorating, a pause by the air conditioner is in order.

 They are curious about everything; a blade of grass warrants investigation.

Their mother sent them to her favorite haunt from last summer, the raised garden, to make sure the grape tomato had been planted. (It had.) 

This year's plants are still small, and the young chipmunks thought it was a great place to play soccer, racing around the field like Mia Hamm.

Their cousins have a place on the other side of the house. 

After a stormy night, a timid peek out of one entrance to their fortress reveals downed sticks and oak tassels.

"Better grab my hard hat!"



Linking with Saturday's Critters

Superheros

Don's sort of a sucker for superhero shows. In 1990, there was a pretty silly one he watched called The Flash. (OK, I watched it, too.) The hero would put on a red suit, and then they'd show him in fast forward mode, doing heroic things. (Actually, the best thing for me was watching him clean house.)

About the time we watched that show, we started seeing a chipmunk near the house, and he was so fast that we dubbed him Flash in honor of our superhero. The next chipmunks to appear were indistinguishable from the first, so they became Flash, too. Since then, several subsequent generations of chipmunks here have all had the same name.

For several days now, a young Flash has been helping himself to snacks on our deck. Most winters, chipmunks stay snugly tucked into their dens in the ground, and we don't see a sign of them for months.

Flash has been here on frigid mornings, his hair standing on end, and when long blue shadows cross the deck, he stuffs his cheeks 'til they can't hold another sunflower seed. Then he's off to hide them away, only to return and repeat the process. It makes us wonder if someone raided his family's cache, and true to his superhero nature, he's out gathering provisions for the larder.

In the basement this morning, a small mouse was caught in a trap. My first instinct was to holler for Don to help. Of course. He loves dealing with wildlife. The frightened mouse was scarcely damaged, so my own personal superhero took the poor thing outside and set it free. Who needs a red suit? (Uh, don't let this get around. My man and protector has his reputation to think about.)

At last report, the little mouse has been eating sunflower seeds, drinking from the birdbath, and hanging out in the woodpile, so we think he's ok. And The Flash is still hard at work, saving the world from hunger.

Well, at least his family.

First published on January 1, 2014

Linking with Saturday's Critters

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

False Spring

It doesn't take much to get everybody's hopes up. We get a few days of nice weather, and even nature starts thinking, "Spring!" 

Yesterday, when it was still January, there was a fly and a cricket in the house, a small snake on the front porch,
and two ticks rode back from the woods on Barley. 

The trees have not capitulated to the siren song of spring yet, but some of the fields have already turned green...

 ...and the snowdrops, though always early, were swaying in a springlike breeze today.

Of course, it's only February 1st, and even if we didn't follow Kevin on channel 10, or Ron and Abby on KY3, 

we'd still know that these balmy days won't last.

About this time every year, I'm reminded of the ancient promise God gave to Noah:

“As long as the earth endures,

seedtime and harvest,

cold and heat,

summer and winter,

day and night

will never cease.” 

Genesis 8:22

The promise has never been broken, and I believe we can safely say that, sooner or later, spring will come.

Don doesn't even like to hear me breathe this prayer, but Barley and I can't help asking:
"Please, God, can we have at least one good snow first?"


Linking with Saturday's Critters,

Skywatch Friday

and Wednesday Around the World

Helping Hands

The birdbath outside our kitchen window had several visitors this morning that we don't often see. Two fat Robins drank opposite each other; the water droplets on their beaks sparkling like diamonds in the early sun. They were joined by a Flicker and a small flock of Cedar Waxwings. Waxwings are such beautiful birds, and aptly named. I had the impression this morning, that before they left the shelter of the cedars, they had dipped the tips of their feathers in large pots of hot red and yellow wax. They came as a group, eating a few winterberries from the branches propped by the birdbath, and they left together, moving in one long, synchronized formation.  

Our birdbath has a small device that prevents it from freezing in the winter, and when the pond is frozen over, as it is now, the birdbath becomes a magnet for birds. Eight bluebirds came next and lined up close around the rim, enjoying each other's company.  

A loud thump scattered the birds, and we saw a Flicker that had just crashed into a window, flopping on the cold bricks. It didn't look good. Don was out the door in a flash, scooped the poor bird up, then cradled it in his warm hands. Before long, the Flicker raised her head and life seemed to surge back into her body. Then she lifted off and flew away.  Woodpeckers seem to have a pretty good recovery from such mishaps; their heads must be tough considering all the jackhammering they do.

Don and I have both held a number of birds over the years, cheering them on, and when they make a recovery, we feel like we've gained a friend. We'll keep watching the sky, and the next time we see a Flicker, we won't be surprised if she tips her wings in our direction.

First posted on January 9, 2011

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

and Saturday's Critters

Ten Seconds

We'll be counting down the big seconds soon. 

Here's another countdown, 10 favorite photos from 2015 (click for lightbox):

10.  Female Ruby-Throated Hummingbird

Hummingbird Addiction

9.  Wild Rabbit and Eastern Chipmunk

Wild Morning

8.  Eastern Wild Turkey Hen and Poults

Mother Hen

7.  Barley, Golden Retriever

Dog Dreams

6.  Dogwood Blossoms

Ten Reasons to love the Ozarks in the Early Spring

5.  Whiskey Creek on Bull Shoals Lake

Blurb Magazine

4.  O'possum

School's Out

3.  North Branch Creek and Bull Shoals Lake

Winter Dog

2.  Sunrise Over Bull Shoals Lake

Winter's Pallette

1.  Yellow-Shafted Flicker with Dogwood Berry

Shadows

Linking with Saturday's Critters

 and Wild Bird Wednesday