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

Goodbye, Sweet Prince

We hadn't had a dog for a while and didn't know we needed one until we met Barley. And he needed us. He came into our lives just under eight years ago on what would have been the last day of his life. How could we have imagined the joy he would bring us?

Barley was four years old when he arrived at our house, and his first four years hadn't been easy. We loved him from the moment we set eyes on him. It didn't take long to become accustomed to the comfort of his companionship. Looking out for him became as natural as breathing. You notice such things when they are gone.

Walking toward the house today, I glanced back for Barley. It was a momentary lapse, then reality hit like a blow. Barley died at home Tuesday morning, most likely from an embolism. It happened quickly and it was a mercy that he didn't suffer long.

As words are still hard to come by, I'm adding some pictures as a tribute to the dog whose paw prints are written forever on our hearts.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

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