The hawthorn

From the kitchen window, I could barely see it.
A cardinal’s nest tucked high in the tangled branches of a small hawthorn.
It was the activity there, that caught my eye—Mama and Papa repeatedly arriving with fat, juicy green caterpillars for a family in a nest of sticks and stems.
But I never saw their faces, until Sunday.
When they caught someone else’s eye, too.



Even from an upstairs window, it was hidden well. Dense leafy branches and an occasional long thorn discouraged me from searching further.
A single broad reaching mouth, the only visible sign of life.


Papa was easy to recognize in the yard. A bad case of feather mites had eliminated every last remnant of his glorious red crest--his entire head, where he could not preen, bald and black. With a cheerful, “chip,” he tirelessly arrived with food.

By Sunday afternoon, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d probably never see the growing chick attached to the gaping mouth.
One day, she’d just be gone.
The messy sticks and stems would fall loose with autumn leaves.
And Papa would again be brilliantly feathered at the feeder.



But just then, from across the yard, an alarm sounded.
From the back, I came running to the base of their tree, while Mama and Papa looked on, frantically crying out.
Wrapped around the trunk, in a mass of vines—a large black rat snake slowly climbed through the branches.
The nest, just feet away.

In the time that it took me to release him back by the pond, all had grown quiet in the hawthorn.
An unsettling quiet that hinted of loss, and made me wonder if I had arrived on the scene moments too late.
I ran upstairs to peek down.
Yes, the nest was empty.


But at the very edge of the highest thorny branch, a fuzzy brown lump.
And a mouth that looked very familiar.

The Lookout

It would seem they’re all alone in the world.
Two tiny baby hummingbirds, sleeping soundly beneath a leafy canopy.
Eyes still closed, tucked securely into their inch and a half-wide nest--a stretchy spider web structure lined with plant down.
Snug and warm as a fine woolen cap.
On a long, low branch of the old sugar maple.



From 40 feet across the yard, she watches, perched on a twig at the very tip of a slender, crooked branch of lichen-covered locust.

Without leaves, it makes the perfect lookout.
And forms the third point of a triangle, with the nest and porch feeders.


All day long, she returns to this spot, feeding every 10 to 15 minutes--then preening in the bright sunshine.



She visits the nest only every 90 minutes or so—standing at the rim just long enough to feed her young from her crop, before disappearing again across the yard.



It surprises me that she no longer spends time here, as she did when they were 2 small eggs.
Perhaps she trusts the warmth of the woolly nest she has given them to snuggle them when she cannot.
And, as inactive as they still are, knows they need less nourishment than she.
Or perhaps, being the sole parent, time is best spent being vigilant--rather than resting with them beneath the low, leafy branches.

Daily nest photos are posted to the slideshow in my sidebar.

The simplest things

So much of nature’s behavior is innate.
From the intricate weaving of spiders to the miles traveled by birds, alone, over time-worn migration routes—their inborn understanding of a complex task defies explanation.
An act more deeply embedded than thought.
I stand in awe.

So capable, in their short lives, I forget much must also be learned by the very young.
Sometimes, it seems-- the simplest of things.


Last week, I watched the wrens lead their young out into the world—from their nest beneath the chainsaw that rests on the table just inside the barn door.
Four small, still tail-less copies of the adults cautiously emerged into the light. White eye-stripes marking young faces that, just sixteen days before, had yet to be seen.
Following the trilling call of their parents from the yard beyond.
Their bravery, rewarded with food.


In a short while, one successfully skirted the end of the woodpile, and tucked himself safely beneath the red canoe across the lawn.
A fat, juicy beetle for you!


But the remaining three, lingered in the doorway, confused by the wheelbarrows and rakes and piles of wood and stone.
Every little crevice was investigated.
Every log, looked under--and over.
None led out.
A wall of wood stood between them and dinner.


It rained for most of the afternoon, and I could hear their parents’ continuing trill, even from indoors, as I fussed in the kitchen.
From a branch just beyond the pile, she called to them, flitting back and forth, attentively—while they tried to press themselves between every log.
There was no secret passage.



By evening, all was quiet.
The day's lesson, at last, had been learned.
At end of the woodpile, is the beginning of the world.

One egg remained unhatched in the nest

Behind Enemy Lines

Any opportunity to see something new excites me.
Glimpses into the natural world present themselves unexpectedly—unexplored treasures land almost upon my doorstep.
At times, I find myself caught between giddy exploration and more thoughtful restraint.
With a camera in hand, so much more can be seen.
Yet, how close is too close?
And when does my desire to discover interfere with what I want so badly to see?

I struggle to do what is best for both.
And lacking the experience with nesting birds and close contact with fledging hummingbirds, thought I might have the recipe for disaster brewing. Pictures of prematurely fledging babies are not what I’m after. Or abandoned nests, with orphaned young.
Just a clearer picture of what I have never before seen.

Tossed, I wrote to Julie Zickefoose.
Her experience and knowledge are beyond measure.
Her passion, directed as it should be.
Toward all things natural.

Her first question to me, “Are you sure your attention won’t bring predators in with scent?”
Jays, chipmunks and snakes might be alerted to the presence of a nest, if I’m careless in being near. Like the path in the woods that all must walk down, regardless of where it leads, scent is an invitation to explore further.
I must be careful of my presence there.
And not lead others to them.

I snapped just one close-up, waiting until she had left for food, and disappearing before her return.


Two hairy raisins sleeping soundly, already much larger than just days ago!
And a tiny bare wing folded against pink skin.

Then I sat at a distance, hoping to see her feed them before settling in again.
For almost 2 hours I waited, focused on the branch with a longer lens, perfectly still, watching the nest until my legs ached from the stillness.
Through the yard, chatter from another female and 2 males as they darted back and forth to the porch feeder.
And Mama chipping from behind me somewhere, though I dared not take my eyes from her nest.



I left for work without ever seeing her return.
Crossing the sidewalk in the front yard, I found a large black rat snake stretched out in the grass.
Perhaps she saw him there as I waited?
And watched his progress as he hunted.

I relocated him far from the maple tree.
And found Mama back at the nest that evening.
Resting beneath her leafy canopy in the rain.

A Parade for the Fourth

The chain saw sat idle for a few days—resting under the cover of the barn, on a small table, just inside the wide wooden door. It didn’t take but a moment for the wrens to find it—and tuck a nest beneath, bounded at the edges by an unruly pile of chain and several scraps of wood.

For days she sat quietly inside, barely seen in the dark barn, her head low, rust-colored feathers matching the dried leaves perfectly.


A mother’s eye watching my every passing move.
Five speckled eggs, safely warm.


Two weeks later they've hatched, and the job of feeding begins.


Bare pink bodies, wearing nothing but dark fluff on their heads, snuggle, face-forward, waiting for their parents’ return. Motionless and quiet, in their warm fuzzy hats, they, too, are barely seen.

It’s an endless procession.
First, Mama with a grub, then Papa with a beetle.
They hop to the small opening and wait.
With each arrival, the nest comes alive.


Five gaping orange mouths, hungrily open.
Finally, color and life.

Carolina Wren at nest