Botany and Barley

Stooping to free myself from a tangle of greenbriar on this early morning walk, I checked for Barley. Fifty paces back, he was a statue in the forest, nose glued to the ground, gathering information about the night shift. The level area around me was above the creek, where supple-jack grows in profusion, green and brown vines intertwined, the new green spirals winding around unwary cedars and dogwood trees. A thin spiral of supple-jack will start up a tree, subtle as sin, then grow and bring the tree to its knees before eventually uprooting it. Of course, the supple-jack comes down with the tree. Make of it what you will.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mean to disparage supple-jack completely. Many wild birds, including wild turkeys and bobwhite quail, dine on the fruit. The vines also make good perches for birds. A vine harvested last year formed an arching perch over our birdbath. It was broken recently, and the remains were useful only as something for Barley to carry around. I cut a few strands to take its place.

The walk up the hollow used to be an easy one, but since the 2009 ice storm, much of the area is obstructed with downfall, bleached bones of once stately trees. Searching for a clear path, I had turned up the bank from the creek bed and walked through shoulder high weeds along a deer highway that widened into a bedding area, then split off into narrow paths. One of the trails led back toward the bottom to the flat area where I now stood.

A few steps down from the flat was water, and Barley had come to life and found it before I did. It doesn’t take much to make him happy. A spring gurgles out from the rocky hillside and forms a creek that flows into pools where polliwogs and watercress grow. There are many springs here, but the kind that run all year are referred to as everlasting springs. The presence of watercress is a mute testimony to this.

Years ago, up a little further, I found wild hibiscus growing out of a rock ledge beside the creek. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find Sunday, but the clock turned me back before any notable discoveries were made. Though, on the way back, I saw several black and white feathers scattered on the ground, about 7” long. From the number of them there, it seemed likely that the bird they came from wouldn’t be needing them any more.

Back home, Don and I speculated about what kind of bird gave up the feathers. Don guessed a red headed woodpecker, or possibly a pileated. “Or maybe an ivory billed”, I suggested. “Good luck with that one”, Don grinned.

One of my college professors gave an assignment each semester for students to go out in the country on a clear night, lay on the ground for an hour facing the sky, and think about God. (The times were safer, and they didn’t have ticks there.) It was a worthwhile exercise, and I came away with even more awe of the One who scattered the stars in space.

I get the same feeling in the hollow, this place without distractions, surrounded by God’s creation. I came back refreshed, and with only one tick, a reminder that we are in this world and not the next.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Avian Testimonials

Early this week, with the ground dry and parched and the temperature plunging like an elevator in free-fall, the birds at our feeders were ravenous. It seemed like a good time to mix up some suet.

Suet is easy to make. Here's my recipe:

1 cup lard
1 cup crunchy peanut butter
1 cup oatmeal
2 cups unsalted sunflower seeds, shelled
1 cup flaxseed meal or yellow cornmeal
1/2 cup raisins

Melt the lard and peanut butter in a large saucepan, and mix in the other ingredients. Spoon into molds (I used the bottom 2 inches of plastic cups), press the mix together, and freeze. Sometimes, I also press the mix into pinecones.

When the suet was frozen and out of the molds, I made a hole with a skinny nail through the center of each one, then threaded a thin wire through the hole, and hung them in a tree near our feeder, where the birds were sure to notice them.

It's always nice when your cooking is appreciated. 

When the food is devoured and they come back for more, it's better than 5 stars on the internet.

Consider these photos visual testimonials.

Of course, there's Winterberry for desert.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

and Saturday's Critters

Mountain Lion Hollow

It's good to see the sun after several gloomy days, which had closed in on us like grey felt in a flower press. The hunting season finally over, Barley and I have taken to walking in the hollow below our house. Where the trail makes its final descent into the hollow, winterberry trees have put on their Christmas decorations, bright red candy-colored balls. Birds flee at our approach, receding as waves into an ocean of weeds, or wildflowers, depending on one's perspective. I stand still, holding my breath, and the birds return, one by one, drawn by the fruit, devouring the ornaments like a child who can't wait for Christmas.

Barley holds his breath, too, standing motionless several paces behind me.

The hollow is quiet this morning, except for the twitter of birds, but this place is not always without drama. One October, in the early morning dark, Don walked down the trail and set up with his bow in a tree facing the valley, overlooking the creek. As the first rays of light streamed across the hollow, he noticed movement in the tall amber colored weeds, about 75 yards away. He fixed his gaze on the area for a short time before a tail appeared, swishing slowly back and forth. Then the steely eyes of a mountain lion came into focus, staring straight at him. A chill went down his spine.

Don remembers thinking that he’s always preferred to deer hunt alone. It was more true that day than ever before. Looking down at his bow, he calculated his chances of getting off a clean shot at a charging cat. Not good. He decided to begin his retreat. Then, if the mountain lion charged, he’d have time to get his back against a large tree and pull out his hunting knife. He got his feet on the ground and took one step sideways up the hill, keeping an eye on the path, and one on the predator below. The mountain lion didn’t move. Its tail twitched, but its eyes were steady.

Don continued to sidle up the hill, judging, with each step, the distance to the next tree. He was home before he could breathe easy. 

I think about that mountain lion once in a while when Barley and I are walking in the hollow, and my fingers tighten, momentarily, on the knife in my pocket.

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and
 Wild Bird Wednesday

Co-inhabitants

Every once in a while, when we start thinking that this place where we live belongs to us, 

we are reminded that our opinion is not universal.

Most mornings lately, four Eastern Wild Turkey gobblers have been gathering on our back patio.

They like the convenience of fresh water (or sometimes ice) in the birdbath, a chance to admire their reflections in the window glass, and the exceptional acoustics. If volume had anything to do with ownership, when they gobble, they would have the deed to the house in their feathery back pocket. The turkeys retreat a little when we pass by the windows, but seem only mildly inconvenienced by the other occupants of this place, namely us. Their forebears, after all, were here long before ours were.
 
Before dawn yesterday morning, Don watched a skunk saunter away from the back of the house, while a fat raccoon sat in the bird feeder, eating a bedtime snack. We've been wondering why the bird feed disappeared so fast, and now we know that it's been going to two more residents.

              

In the summer, a mother raccoon and her two kits would come in the evenings to eat... 

...before climbing up to their nursery in a large oak tree behind the house. 

In the nighttime, the place belonged to them.

Deer have always been occupants of our woods. 

Of the seven we see regularly, one button buck has taken to the dog kennel, and helps himself to fallen acorns. 

We see the larger bucks less frequently, but in the shelter of the darkness, they may consider this place their own, too.

Barley is the only four-legged creature with a key to the house.

So far.

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and Wild Bird Wednesday

Two Birds

Roadrunner came for a visit the other day, stopping near the front of the house. 

He found a dead hummingbird, and catlike, played with his food.

It tasted like old shoe leather and he spit it out on the rocks.

"Am I really that hungry?"

"Nah! I'm outta here!"

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Southbound

Two chilly nights and southbound geese overhead have me thinking about seasonal changes. Hummingbirds are tanking up for their trip to the Yucatan. Early in the morning, and just before dark, their activity around the feeders is intense.

The sun has warmed the rocks on the south side of the house, and I lean against them, facing the feeders, which are only a few inches away. It's an excellent place to observe the small winged warriors. Supper is over, and while Don watches a spy movie, I spend the pleasant part of an hour there, absorbed by their acrobatics, their chirps and the hum of their wings. Occasionally one of them hovers just in front of my face, trying to ascertain what kind of a creature is sharing their space, and I steel myself not to flinch. Their battles over the sugar water are swift and fierce. 

They fly back and forth between the feeders and the geraniums.

In a flowerpot at my side is Firecracker Cuphea, a plant the little birds also love. They light on the springy stems, riding them down almost to the ground, then up, pendulum-like, all the while pumping nectar out of the sweet purple and red blossoms. 

As the sky darkens, the chirps of the hummingbirds give way to the sounds of the night. I head inside, refreshed by the ambiance of the evening. And in the spy movie, the good guys win. 

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and Wild Bird Wednesday.

Day Job

A faint tapping sound came from upstairs, like the sound of someone knocking on the window. When I went up to investigate, I saw a Black Vulture at the large window in the living room, tapping softly. I was pretty sure I knew what it wanted.

About a week earlier, Don, bless his heart, had hit the wall about the squirrels that were taking over our bird feeder. It's squirrel hunting season here, and Don's a hunter, so I'll let you fill in the blanks. Having eaten his share of squirrels in his youth from necessity, and not from love of the meat, Don opted to donate these to our local clean up crew, the vultures. For a while, every morning, one squirrel was disappearing from the feeder and appearing, belly up, on a tall stump out from the kitchen. The vultures were efficient at disposal.

But now there had been a two day absence of squirrel meat, and the vulture at the window seemed to be asking politely, 

"Did you forget something?"

The next day, and for some time since then, there have been two Black Vultures here regularly. 

They are a lot like pets, in that they expect to be fed. 

Unlike Turkey Vultures, Black Vultures are almost handsome, with their amour-like head gear and white stockings. 

They perch on our deck... 

preen themselves...

drink from the birdbath...

lounge on the stump where the squirrels have appeared...

stretch, and generally make themselves comfortable.

 One of them even tried to take a bite of our door mat.  

It may have been a ploy for sympathy, as in "See how hungry I am?" 

Occasionally, they get demanding, flying up and striking the window with force, but for the most part, they are friendly, and even let us join them on the deck if we stay quietly in our corner.

Of course, with all this activity, squirrels are not coming around as much. The vultures haven't seemed to figure out that their frequent presence is contrary to their interests. So, until they do, we'll enjoy the entertainment. Soon enough, they'll get hungry and find it necessary to return to their regular day jobs--policing this area's highways, county roads, farms and woodlands for opportunities to put on their bibs and get back to work.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday
I'd Rather B Birdin'
and 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

Cleanup Crew ll

They come at first light, announcing their arrival. Acorns from the large pin oak in our yard carpet the ground below the dogwood tree, and bluejays have been enjoying the harvest.

I watched one bird pick up an acorn and fly up to a sturdy dogwood branch.  Pinning the nut between his feet, he drew himself up to full height, and then, with a swift motion, he brought the full force of his beak down on the acorn.

It took several blows to crack the nut before he was able to extract the bitter meat and gobble it down. His mini-meal finished, he discarded the empty shell, and went to find the next nut.

If things go as they have in past years, the acorns will be gone long before the lawnmower comes out of the garage.  It's good to have a cleanup crew.

Click here for the original Cleanup Crew.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

and Wild Bird Wednesday