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 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

Time to fly

It hardly seems normal—this wave of comfortably cool air that has settled across our area. June’s mugginess, which I’ve come to dread, has been replaced by, “pleasantness,” in the weatherman’s words, that is not to be expected in an Ohio River summer. And, though these dense woods are now lush with leaves, there is a freshness with each breeze that is more like the North Woods of my younger years, than the Midwest.
I wonder if time will ever soften the sharpness of that change—if steamy summers will ever become what I cherish.
Or if we learn to love what we first know--best.


It’s almost time to fly.
The walnut-sized nest is filled to the brim.


Changing position has become like a sword fight in a phone booth.


But, for now, a safe place for a nap.
For now, it’s still home.

Thanks to Wigger's World for hosting Skywatch Friday each week at his site!

1...2...3 Chickadee...dee...dee

These photos update a post starting here.

The empty nest

There is a nest, perched on the outcropping of the bare bulb mounted on the rafter in the barn.
When I found it weeks ago, it looked very much as it does now—unseen eggs waiting inside --the promise of life.
Helpless and bare, they arrived one-by-one, four dependents, the charge of two doting parents.
Almost perceptibly, changing and growing. Hinting at who they were to become.
Soon, four faces peering over the rim. Eager eyes bright, with eager feathered wings.
This quiet, safe place becoming their past; the sky, their future.
The nest sits empty now—a reminder of that promise.
Their lives in the skies, a joy to behold.
Still, a tear.

Walk with me

I love Tuesdays!
They're my mornings off--my mornings to get out, explore and catch up with so many places I only briefly see any other day of the week.
And today, it seemed to be a refreshed earth I was walking in--last week's rains have sprouted newness and greenness where before it had become brown and lifeless.

The phoebes are about to fledge.

Four precious faces, now barely squeezed in a cup.

I always check the floor beneath the nest as soon as I enter the doorway--so afraid I'll find one fallen. Messy little eating machines!

And, it's the mess over here that caught my eye--even messier eating machines here, too?


Four more precious faces--barn swallows, also very soon to fly. And with almost no headroom--that's cozy!



The grapes are now about the size of green grapes you'd buy in the store--but these need to ripen--to concord purple this fall.

As I came across the field, a doe stepped out in front of me, snorted and stomped twice. Immediately beside me, in the tall grass, 2 small faces peered back.

Our older, little pond, now dry, has filled with fresh, tender grass--a salad bowl for grazing.

And the thrush woods--very leafy and dense.
Down in the dry creek bed, the bee balm-- red dots amidst fresh green, minty stems.
The world seems alive again.