A Bird in the Hand

I have a fondness for the very small.
Awe for those, who, despite their tiny size, accomplish feats of gargantuan proportion.
Completing a round trip journey each year, over a pathway of a thousand miles, from their winter months’ stay in Central America, to arrive at my window each spring—
weary travelers, reminding me a feeder is expected, hanging in this very spot, readied with clean nectar, from which to sip.

Ruby-throated Hummingbird, female

The migration of Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, these remarkable little powerhouses, is studied by Bill Hilton, Jr. of Operation Ruby Throat, and his demonstration of hummingbird banding started my week at the New River Festival.

preparing to collect and record data

Every part of the banding operation must be scaled down for these tiny navigational stars, from the handling of the delicate birds, to the bands themselves, each barely the size of the head of a pin.

Hummingbird bands stored on safety pin

As each small bird is caught in the trap, it is quickly removed and restrained in a small tube--the little gem, tucked head-first into a safe, dark place. Wings held closed and still.

gently lifting foot to place band

Its few grams of weight are recorded on the register, beside its band number, species, age, and sex. Date, location and time of the capture are also recorded.
Carefully, the numbered band is placed above her foot, and gently tightened.



Tail measurements are taken and the bill examined with a hand lens to determine age. Etchings along its length, from the rapid growth of nestlings, are worn away over time as these tiny birds feed, each brush of their slender bills against the tube of a feeder or flower, smoothing growth ridges gradually away.


Next, the throat is examined for feather color, another indicator of the little bird’s age. And with a quick puff of air against her body, feathers blown aside to check for body fat, yellow peeking through her translucent pink skin.


She seems quite calm through all this, the firm but gentle handling quieting her.
Warm morning sunshine reflecting the lovely iridescent green of her back.
And, in silence, all eyes watch, and marvel at such a tiny one so close.
So still.


Until she is held in an open palm to be released,
and, with a burst--is gone.
Safe travels, little one.

.

Old Mother Maple

I love the big, old trees on our property.

Arriving from upstate New York, they were the first impression of our new southern home. Where, from a canopy above, birdsong greeted the weary travelers and broad branches sheltered an old brick house safely beneath.
A large hickory stands guard in the back, reminding us with intermittent showers of nuts upon the tin roof, that he’s still standing strong.
In the front, a large hollow Sycamore and 2 Sugar Maples line the drive.
We are well surrounded by their interlacing, graceful branches.
Safely at home, on the top of our little hill.

Maple Sugaring Time
Sugar Maple, Acer saccharum

In early spring, we tap the Sugar Maples—the first step in a month-long process that yields the sweet amber syrup I remember from my grandfather’s farm in Vermont. Only several quarts, from just 3 trees scattered across the yard. But, a sweetness like no other, that tastes of strength and purity—and home.

The largest of the three, Mother Maple, reaches out toward our porch.
Her twisted trunk bears the scars of large fallen limbs. And the many slender branches grown in their place are crooked, giving her a lop-sided profile.
She is the character of an old, proud tree.
Gnarled, and with bark covered by lichens.
Greeting visitors to the hill, in her place by the front walk.

Mother Maple

Every spring, her arms welcome nesting birds.
Last year, a family of Summer Tanagers and this spring, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds.
On narrow leafy branches, with a gentle slope--such a welcome place to make a home.

female Summer Tanager at nest

Ruby-throated Hummingbird nest with tip of beak showing above

pair of baby hummingbirds in nest

This fall, her leaves have grown brown and withered. They litter the ground beneath her, barely changing to their golden tones.
I wonder if she will be with us much longer.
Or if there will be a gap in this landscape.

The hot, dry summer is hard on a more northern girl.

Mother Maple and our home

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Green: A Color in Many Shades

Our pond wears a heavy green blanket.
Even as I approach slowly and quietly, hundreds of frogs launch themselves in a seemingly choreographed sequence from the shallow, muddy edges into deeper water—skittering across the thick, clotted surface with noisy squeaks and plops.
A tremendous bowl of pea soup, bubbling with activity.


It would appear that much has been neglected here.
The edge grows wild and untamed. Grasses and jewelweed lean forward, dangling seeds from delicate stems. The clear water of spring has all but disappeared beneath a curtain.

Water droplets on Spotted Touch-me-not appear jewel-like,
hence the common name, Jewelweed.

My morning drive to work takes me past a hillside where tall trees once covered a steep slope.
Bales of straw now attempt to anchor the newly planted grass, a lovely green entry to the latest subdivision.
A sign with gilt trim advertises proudly.




There must be many shades of green.
Those that exist as a definition of color, alone. And those that are defined by a philosophy.
It is the spaces we do not conquer, that wear the truest shade.

As I was crouching by the edge of the pond to photograph this Jewelweed,
a Ruby-Throated Hummingbird buzzed into the picture to feed from its flower.

Our Green Space, the pond, and 35 frogs.