A Fistfull of Feathers

Red-shouldered Hawks, Buteo lineatus

I woke this morning to Franklin’s frantic barking from downstairs, roused from a lazy morning by what he thought was an intruder’s knocking. Panicked myself, to be caught in my pajamas with someone at the door at dawn, I slowly realized the repeated tapping was not human at all, but a woodpecker drumming on a hollow board close to the eaves--the tiny jack-hammer resounding throughout the house.

Perched as we are, at the edge of a small wooded ravine, the trees surround us, bringing the birds close, just feet from view. And as common as they are to these woods, the woodpeckers have always been a favorite. Red-bellied, Hairy, Downy and Pileated—all at home here in the many dead and dying trees. And their unusual ways, intriguing.

The tall, dense trees draw others close, too, though usually just enough above us to be unseen. Watching, motionless, they are at home here, too--the hawks. Red-shouldered, scanning the ground for unsuspecting squirrels or Cooper’s, waiting to snatch a bird drawn to feed—often, the flash of their strike is all we see. Dinner is swiftly carried off.

Last week, after such a flash, I followed, not sure I’d find anything more than a glimpse of a hawk in a distant tree or returning to the air to soar over the fields. But beneath a long horizontal maple branch, there was a collection of feathers—black and dotted with white, of a red-bellied woodpecker.

Disappointing, to be sure. But an opportunity to see more closely, what, otherwise I see only in books—that intriguing woodpecker tail.

Red-bellied Woodpecker tail feathers

The tail feathers, retrices, are curved sharply, like a leaf spring,
and have 2 rows of reinforcing ridges on the shaft, making it very resilient, stiff and strong.


And, the tips have a tiny v-shaped gap in the barbs, perhaps for better “grip” (?) against the tree bark, as it is pressed to form a stable third leg of the tripod, so important for leverage while chiseling and excavating wood.




Below, wing feathers, primaries, are also black, dotted with white.

The Stuff Legends are Made of

The perfect season for a mystery--when morning fog shrouds every form, and the woods and fields have grown quiet. Shorter days steal the last light from the deepest recesses of the forest.
For what we cannot see—
there is imagination.


I stepped off the leafy path last weekend, where the grass leads into the dark pine woods. Beyond the crunching of dry fallen leaves beneath my steps, it became suddenly quiet, the ground a densely woven blanket of randomly strewn green and brown needles.
Shadows stretch from the edge, inward, across them.
The lower branches forming an impenetrable fence, their long bare fingers laced together--catching my hair and clothes as I venture past them into this protected space.

It was here, last year, that I discovered our owl, as she sat on a low branch, watching, from a distant corner. We met, with only feet between us, and held each other, eye-to-eye, until she flew off in silence through the woods and beyond. Her tree stands empty now, the whitewash faded from summer rains.


So what of this skull?
Bleached bone laid neatly on the blanket of needles, nothing more to suggest how it came to rest here, in the pine woods.
And what of the cow that is without it?

It is the stuff legends are made of.

Hit and Run

Summer grasses grow tall at the edge of our single-lane road. Their faded heads, heavy with seeds, lean gracefully toward the pavement. The path is narrow, and much of it is winding, with sharp curves that demand a slower speed. But, on the straight and open stretches, cars fly.
The homes here are set back from the road.
And what surrounds them has grown wild and free.

I stood nose to nose with a pick-up truck at the stop sign on the corner yesterday. He turned onto our lane and sped off, ahead of me, until I could no longer see him.
I’m sure he didn’t have time to stop, if he saw her at all.
For, I found her fluttering on the pavement just seconds later.
A Brown Thrasher, like one of the pair I’d seen earlier that morning on our lawn, down the road, near the woods’ edge.

I lifted her with cupped hands and folded them around her--quieting her wings, shielding her face from what I knew must be horribly frightening, though I knew it would not help.
Moments later, within the darkness of my hands, she lay still.



She rests, now, with tall grasses around her.
Where the pavement ends and her world begins.

It would seem, a life lived wild and free deserves, at the very least, that.

Moth Mullein against Chicory

Breezes blowing

Yesterday, between snow squalls from slate gray skies and bits of sunshine from blue, I roamed our trails slowly.
This is the season of change, almost daily—
leaves burst forth from buds, and birds’ feathers brighten.
Like the clouds, changing moment by moment.

A pair of Mallards has been spending time on our pond.
Each time I approach, they fly off. Maybe it’s best—the tracks I’ve seen back here suggest a hungry neighbor patrols often.

A handful of small, white feathers floats in the center across the surface of the muddy water —the breeze pushing each little vessel to the edge where it is caught, moored on grasses in the shallows.


They appear to be breast feathers—each delicately curved, splashed with a brown tip.
It seems unusual that so many have fallen here. Were they preened, or did something happen in the sky above, dropping them onto the pond?



By the time I return past, they’re barely visible—faint spots scattered and hidden in the weeds.

Spring breezes move life quickly past.

When Nature takes her own

White snow, his blanket,
he rests on the forest floor.
Oaks stand watch above.

Dressed in the richness
of these woods—red, orange, brown.
Lord of air, fallen.

Little feet scurry
to see what strangeness lies here.
Still, they touch him not.

I found the body of a Red-shouldered Hawk, perfect in every way, preserved by the snow in the woods.
He appears to have broken his neck.
I wrapped him well and will carry him to CNC.

He will be admired by many,
but remembered by me.

Please click to enlarge.