Rockabye Baby

Early yesterday morning, as the sun emerged from the clouds over the horizon, the four note song of the Carolina Chickadee drifted through our window. The little birds looked as if they were doing their morning calisthenics, hopping from branch to branch. Only later did I wonder if their activity was a birth announcement.

They are nesting in a birdhouse located in the old dogwood tree near the front of our house. 

There is a quick glance out the door...

...before they take flight.

My first hint that the nestlings had hatched was when I saw the diaper disposal.

 Carolina Chickadees are very neat.

Both parents feed the nestlings, and several minutes elapses between each feeding, so, like a bank robber timing the alarms, I calculated that I could get a look before the parents returned. As soon as one of the parents flew away, I set up a ladder, opened the hinged roof, and took a quick snapshot. In and out in 60 seconds.

At this point, the most predominant feature of the nestlings is their mouths, and considering how tightly the birds are packed in the nest and how quickly they get fed, it's good that the parents have big targets. The nestling's unopened eyes are only bumps on their heads and a few tiny feathers indicate their wings. Their are at least eight of them, and possibly one or two more.

Today we noticed that the branch that supports the birdhouse is rotten, and since rain and high winds are forecasted for tomorrow, we trussed the birdhouse up to a sturdier branch, while one of the parents looked patiently on.

We hope they sleep well as the wind rocks their cradle. We'll sleep better knowing that they're secure.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

and Saturday's Critters

Stay Off the Menu

To the Virginian Tiger Moth on our front porch:

I remember last autumn, when you were a Yellow Wooly Bear caterpillar gorging on the plants in our flowerbed. Maybe you knew you'd be on a diet all winter. When your appetite was satisfied, you set out on the longest journey of your short life, trudging across the patio bricks with a purpose. You scaled the porch step, slogged across the porch, and climbed up the window frame all the way to the top.

There you found your perfect niche, and you constructed a fuzzy winter home.

This week, I noticed that the front of your dwelling had been opened, and that's when I saw you, 

pristine white, clothed in your miniature ermine coat. 

You probably thought you'd chosen a safe place to rest, but I have a warning for you. On rainy nights, the green tree frogs that you hear singing from the pond sneak up to the porch to dine on creatures like you who are attracted by the house lights.

It's raining tonight. But don't worry, we'll leave the lights off for you.


Linking with Saturday's Critters

Lured by a Butterfly

Our wildflower meadow is a miniature one this time of year, with henbit, bluet and my favorite, 

Johnny-jump-up, scattered among the dormant grass.

Here and there, a toothwort or rue anemone, at shoe height, tower above the others. The best way to appreciate this beauty, I think, is at ground level, and I've spent a little time there lately, laying on my sturdy old exercise mat. Besides providing padding, I've been counting on it to keep most of the bugs away (except for the pretty ones that don't think we taste good).

I wasn't just there to see the flowers. I'd been lured by an elusive butterfly. On a walk in the woods last week, I saw a male Falcate Orangetip for the first time. Flying at eye level a few yards ahead of me, he stayed over the path like a mechanical rabbit, and I had to pick up my pace to keep up with him. He was small and white with one bright tangerine spot on each wing. The female lacks the orange spot, but both of them have a delicate pattern on the underside of their hind wings. When a female appeared in the brush at the side of the trail, the Orangetip male abandoned me, and it was only then I noticed the single stemmed rose he was carrying.

I saw their cousins in western Ozark County, about 8 miles from here, and also in our meadow, which is the main reason I was there, with my camera of course. But photographing them has been a challenge. They would speed by, flying erratically, like a house fly on steroids. When I finally saw one alight, it was momentary, on the delicate violet, Johnny-jump-up.

There's a state park in Connecticut called West Rock where people gather every year to see these butterflies. I can understand why they go to view such a sight, but now I can say with certainty, they ain't got nuthin' in Connecticut that we don't have right here in Ozark County, Missouri.

Linking with Our World Tuesday