Refilling the Feeder

My hummingbird is happy for the change…in me.
A newly cleaned and freshly filled reservoir hangs, brimming with cool nectar, in what feels like September’s first fall breeze. I’d gotten lazy in my tending of the small, plastic globe suspended from the eave of the upstairs front porch and blamed, instead, the awful August heat for the mildew-blackened holes and clouded liquid of the neglected hummingbird feeder.

The demands of summer ran away with me. Carefree hours spent on the porch watching hummingbirds dart in for long drinks or perch quietly within firing range and zoom back around in defense of the plastic flower soon dwindled to nothing. And as the birds themselves disappeared in my neglect, so did my desire to spend time porch-sitting.
Before long, a faded and revoltingly dirty (and unhealthy) feeder was the only hint that remained to suggest that this had once been a place of great joys.


A couple of weeks ago, I spent a few days with a friend.
The hum and whir of birds outside her doorstep began at dawn and continued through the day until dark. Back and forth they’d travel by the dozens to the sizable reservoir—hers always fresh and full—hanging near a copper bucket tucked and fastened beneath the eave.




Flowers filled her yard.
As you’d expect from one whose life has been largely devoted to caring for and nurturing even these tiniest of winged creatures, many plants had been chosen as natural nectar sources. But the artist’s eye and poet’s soul had gone beyond to create a beauty so lively and rich, that it remained after dark, afloat on the air of a night lit only by full moon and fireflies.

And I drank it in.





And remembered the places and stories that had first registered those feelings of connectedness, the inspiration that flows with her words from the page.



The friendship that I can only describe as a ball of yarn--
cords wrapped this way and that, intertwined one with another,
until I can no longer tell where it began.
I only know that, with time, it has gotten bigger.



Dropped back into my daily routine from this refresher of sorts, I began with an overhaul of the feeders.
After all, I know what it is to be thirsty.

Chet Baker

What floats my boat

I love nothing better than to push off from the shore of a broad, shallow lake and float out into its center--
the entire body of water around me, quiet and still.
Sitting low to its surface in my kayak, the sky above it all seems even more huge, its open space a giant dome across which birds and dragonflies course—
while I drift as a lone, small speck below.

Bald Eagle above Salt Fork Lake

Onto the quiet water in a small arm of Salt Fork Lake, a reservoir encompassing nearly 3,000 acres of water within Ohio’s largest state park, I floated with 2 friends in 3 small crafts—
Julie's 2 canoes and my kayak.

T.R. and Julie on the Lake

Fanning out from this hidden shore, we spread across the water, the entire space in this small corner ours alone.
Each carving a distinct path,
each finding his own perfect treasures to explore,


we paddled beneath the wide, arcing flight of a young eagle.

And were held in orbit around a tiny spot of color as she rested on the darkened remains of a flooded tree stump, now a pint-sized island sprouting elfin versions of the earthbound greenery along the shore.

Julie & ?

Question Mark butterfly on submerged stump

T.R. & ?

Bit by bit, we’d drift apart, pirouetting across the water to look into the face of a dancing fox hidden in weathered wood,


exchange a smile for a hand-delivered sandwich,


or paddle buoyantly--
because the freedom of water and waves feels like nothing else.



Then fall into line and speed to the opposite shore as one up ahead spotted a distant object standing motionless in the shallow water—


and knew all three would want to see.

Great Egret

As we watched the great white bird, a light rain fell across the glassy surface, and we sat in silence--
alone with the lake, but not.

My paddling companions:

Julie Zickefoose, author of Julie Zickefoose on Blogspot, writer, naturalist, NPR commentator, watercolor painter, gardener, packer of wonderful lunches, Mether to Chet Baker, fellow Ohioan,...friend,


and T.R. Ryan, author of From the Faraway, Nearby, photographer extraordinaire, talented journalist and writer, world traveler, conservationist, Oklahoman,...friend.

The road to a friend's house

From the southwestern corner of the state, I drive east, along a highway laid straight between planted farm fields all around. Flat and sprawling acre upon acre, they are green now with corn and beans or stand bare while the glossy stubble of harvested wheat fades to gray beneath the bleaching rays of the sun.

Mile upon mile, as distant clusters of barns and sheds tucked neatly between the broad expanses slowly disappear from view, a heavy flow of traffic travels this long straight path—a racing river of cars and trucks linking Ohio’s largest cities. Until on the horizon, from behind a row of trees, the hint of eastern hill country first appears in rolling pastures, steep slopes bathed in the amber glow of a summer evening, the steeple of a small white church that rests amid a stand of pines stepping down the ridge.

One after another, fellow travelers exit the highway. Four lanes have dropped to 3 and before long, shrink to 2. Aside from the few cars that trail behind, the road is mine now as it rises and falls along its heavily treed course toward the Ohio River.


From here I will take a smaller road that winds and dips, plunging into the hollows and returning to ride the ridge. Then meet the worn gravel road flanked by hay fields, sweeping a wide arc beside the uncut grassy meadow.


Because the road to a friend's house is never long.



Surrounded by a wildness that with each season brings new beauty—
by woods adorned with spring’s first wildflowers,
a meadow ripe with summer song,

katydid in grass

smooth sumac, Rhus glabra
in flower

flowering spurge, Euphorbia corollata

she surrounds herself with flowers that tell of her great spirit--

keeper of the innocent,

one who is gentle and kind,

one who is bright and warm.
(and smart and funny and strong...)

No, the road to this dear friend's house could never be too long.

Julie Zickefoose

.

In the Circle

Winged Sumac in fall color

There’s an annual event in the world of birding called the Big Sit, and it’s full of great birders.
The Big Sit involves anyone--individuals or groups from around the world, each creating a 17-foot diameter circle on a specified date and tallying the number of bird species seen or heard from within their circle for a 24-hour period.

The summer hills of southeastern Ohio

foggy morning
photo courtesy Bill Thompson

They begin under the cover of darkness to listen for nocturnal migrants at midnight—little utterances left against a black sky above and a rising moon, while every good sense reminds them they should catch a few hours’ sleep—tomorrow’s a long day of birding.

Then, having stolen a nap, and racing the sun up the stairs to the tower, they wait in the early hours of the morning.
The eastern sky hints of dawn.
Silhouettes stand in shadow.
Funny hats top bulky jackets--the air is still and cold.
A fine mist swirls around their light and covers every object with heavy dew.
From the next ridge, where nothing more than ragged treetops emerges from a great gray lake of cloud, an owl calls, and calls again. My favorites, Barred owls--and sounds I know well.
In the distance, from behind the western wall of fog, a faint twittering is heard. And then silence--as all wait again, hands cupping ears forward, sifting small sounds from the heavy night air. A little “peep” passes in the dark-- and I learn it is the flight call of a Swainson’s Thrush.
Again, the twittering. Coming closer.
I hold my breath, face into the sound, and overhead, the little invisible bird I wait to hear each spring passes through the darkness toward the dawn.
My first Woodcock welcomes morning to Indigo Hill.

Autumn fields aflame with sumac and goldenrod

winged sumac, Rhus capollinum

worn and tired Great Spangled Fritillary female

To bird with great birders is a gift.
Their lives spent listening, observing, learning add depth far greater than can be captured on the page of a field guide.
There are birders who sketch birds,
birders who write about birds,
birders who follow birds around the world or gather information to advance our knowledge of them, who, perhaps, become the greatest birders as they take others into the circle with them.

Jim McCormac, Julie Zickefoose, your blogger, my DH, Anton
photo courtesy Bill Thompson

Bill Thompson, III

list of birds

Julie Zickefoose

and Chet Baker

the color of summer