A Chipmunk's Spring

A woodpile on our front porch hosts a variety of small creatures, and one upright log has become a favorite perch for the first chipmunk of the season. We've named him Primo. On a recent morning, he scrambled to the top of the log and groomed himself as if he had an appointment with Donald Trump that day.

It seems chipmunks might anticipate spring even more than we do. After all, they spend most of the winter in the dark. There is some speculation in the scientific community about what makes chipmunks emerge from their dens. But I like to imagine that a day comes in their underground home when, sundial-like, light makes its way down the shaft of their front hallway and shines on the kitchen table, and they know it's time to come out. Or, possibly they've been hearing the Spring Peepers, as we have, or the Carolina Wrens breaking their winter silence. It must have been rewarding when Primo poked his head above ground to see daffodils and crocus blooming. 

They say if you don't like the weather in the Ozarks, wait a day. The chipmunks must know that one, too. Now the weatherman is predicting snow, so they'll probably be tucked back into their dens tomorrow, hopefully for the last time this season.

Second Chance

 At the end of a perfect cloudless summer day, the first full day of summer, I sat in front of the living room window and watched fireflies in the growing dark. The stars were dim under a full moon, but lightning bugs made up for their lack of luster, floating up from the grass like sky lanterns on a rising stream. The shadowy figure of a raccoon passed in front of me on the deck. 

My mind was elsewhere, specifically on a baby bird cradled in a used Phoebe nest on a windowsill outside. Eyes closed tight in sleep, it missed the fireworks display, but I wondered if it heard the Spring Peeper's lullaby.

The day before, a plaintive cheeping drew my attention from my desk to the window. Outside of my basement studio, a nestling bird was struggling to right itself on the rocks below. As I watched, it toppled face down into a crack between the stones and lay still. I guessed it was a Phoebe; the adult birds have been watching the house lately. I had been looking for a nest, but thus far, I was unsuccessful. There are many potential nest sites under the deck, and I didn't want to be too intrusive.

Phoebes are endearing birds. They are one of the earliest migraters to return to the Ozarks every year, and it's always good to see them back. They wear muted colors, shades of gray and white with a hint of yellow, but, what they lack in color, they make up in personality. They are members of the Flycatcher family, and they wag their tails happily and sing their name: "Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe." They construct their nest of mud grass, hair, and moss and attach it to an upright, often to the side of our house.

Several years ago, after a pair had nested near our front door, a big black snake came and scared them away. They abandoned their nest, eggs and all, and never came back. I took the nest down and glued it to a fieldstone from our land. I liked it as a decorative item in the living room, but I didn't dream it would ever be functional again. 

The nestling below my window needed a place to lay its head, and it didn't seem like there was a lot of time to spare. So I took my abandoned nest outside and, scooping up the little bird, placed it inside the soft cavity. It looked happier immediately. 

Its only real chance of survival was for its parents to find it. A windowsill near where I first saw the nestling seemed like the best choice, so I propped it up there, supported it with another rock, and whispered a prayer to the nestling's Maker.

It was still alive the following day, and the next, and I started to exhale. It was clear that its parents were feeding it. By the third morning, it was stretching, and I felt like a proud aunt. 

On day five, the little bird made its move. First, it climbed up from the nest to the top of the rock the nest was attached to. Then, peering inside my studio, it greeted me with an inquisitive stare. 

Before long, the parent came with a dragonfly...

and the little one gobbled down a tasty snack. 

The next time I checked on it, I saw only a concerned parent bird perched on the nest. On closer inspection, I found the fledgling sandwiched between the window and the rock that held the nest. Then, just as I was contemplating another intervention, the fledgling freed itself and flew to the ground. It made short flights of a few yards while its parent watched from its nearby perch before they flew off together into the woods.

With the fledgling gone, I felt at liberty to search for its nest of origin, and I found one, not surprisingly, near the place the nestling had first appeared. Tucked in behind a rafter, it was not obvious, and it was a much better location than the one by our front door. In retrospect, if I had found it earlier, I could have popped the baby back in its nest, and it might have lived happily ever after. Or, just possibly, that nest was too full, and the nestling needed a place of its own. I'll never know for sure, but I imagine by now, it's at the top of its Phoebe flight class and is learning to wag its tail and sing.

I really like happy endings. So far, this is one.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Foggy Morning Hunt

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Wilderness in the Backyard

October can't make up its mind. There have been chilly mornings with fog lifting off the lake like steam from a giant's kettle. Some days, I'm pulling out my sandals and cutoffs, and other days I'm reaching for a flannel shirt. But mostly, until this week, it has been as dry as muffin mix without the liquid.

Last Saturday, the sun came out in earnest. It was one of those balmy autumn days, almost too perfect to belong to this world; the air was crisp, and the sky, a brilliant blue. I made my way to the government hollow near our home for the first time since spring. It was like traveling to a different planet. Last spring, before the rains flooded the valley, the ground was almost impenetrable with brush. Now, months of high lake water have killed all but the hardiest of bushes.

I followed the dry creekbed east to where a stream was flowing, fed by small springs emerging from the hillside. Watercress grows there, and bright wildflowers were flourishing. Nearby were raccoon tracks, and I could imagine the little creatures rinsing their food in the water, their masked faces Corvid-correct. A movement caught my eye. Butterflies? No, it was only bright leaves, fluttering to the ground, their first flight, also their last. Overhead, sun-saturated maple trees wore their Sunday best. 

Continuing up the creek, I waded in the shallow water, thankful for waterproof boots, and where the water was too deep, I picked my way through the brush at the side of the brook. Were it not for one strand of rusty barbed wire, I might have imagined I was the first person to walk this quiet hollow.

With both the Corps of Engineers Bull Shoals Lake boundary land and the Mark Twain National Forest in our county, we are fortunate to live in a place with easy access to wilderness. It doesn't take long to find a place where your footprints, on a given day, are the only human ones. As I examine rocks and trees and flowers, my to-do list recedes to the back of my mind, and I come away refreshed.

I didn't see the raccoons in the hollow, but I saw their prints and knew they'd been there. I didn't see God that day, but I saw His fingerprints everywhere.

Hummingbird Reflections

Hummingbirds captivated my attention at close-range this morning as I sat by the flower pots in front of the house. The breeze generated from the motion of their wings swayed the salvia and brushed across my face. When one of the fearless females hovered inches in front of me, I braced myself not to flinch. 

With seemingly tireless energy, their acrobatics were astonishing as they battled for the birdfeeders. Their iridescent feathers sparkled in the sunlight, accompanied by their wings' hum and squeaky chirps. 

From inside the house, I heard the shrill sound of the weather radio. A few minutes later, the sky darkened, and wind-tossed trees resembled wild horses on the run. I wondered how hummingbird nests could possibly stay intact. The birds retreated briefly, then reappeared in full force. I hoped they were better prognosticators than the weather service. It turned out they were, this time. 

When storms threaten, I often wonder how the creatures who live near us manage. It's a comfort to remember that God sees the sparrow when it falls to the ground. If He cares for a sparrow, how about a hummingbird? And will He not much more care for you and me?