Spot o' Sun

Winter Wrap-up

I’ve become a lot like my cats—
watching the world from a window,
waiting for a spot o’ sun.

Northern cardinal, male
Snow Day

mourning dove in winter

purple finch, female
Ice Storm

purple finch, male

white-throated sparrow

Spot o' Sun
American goldfinch, male

white-tailed deer

Traces

Great Blue Heron flying over Field

The pond and all around it are still on this frosty morning, glazed with the thinnest of crystals. Lace on the deep and dark, cold water.

From the bank, a heron flies off, never trusting of me to approach without its hurried leaving. Its long legs dragging gracelessly behind as it wrestles against gravity--then slowly overcomes it to circle widely out over the field.


The deer have left their footprints along these paths, too, the ground softer now, and badly tunneled by moles.

What little rain we have gained has barely added a drop to the basin, the edge of the water still falling far short of the cut of the land. In several places along the trail, small locusts show the rubbings of antlers.
They stand, barely alive--mangled uprights, the bark now hanging in shreds.

It all seems so empty on this cold, colorless day.

As if those who visit here are all absent, tucked away somewhere in more warmth. Safely nestled in dens and burrows.
Or flown south.
Because all I find are traces.

I found this well-trod trail leading from the barn, under long grasses, to the field.
Whose might it be?

A Moment in Time

There are images that remain in my mind, filed in a special place, remembered for the impression they left upon me. Not a thing of particular beauty, but a moment that has escaped the ordinary.
So precious and rare, that even at the instant it occurred, it is known there will not be another like it.



The wooded ravine behind our house is home to a family of deer, walking the creek bed in all seasons, browsing leaves in spring and summer, hidden against the fallen brown of autumn. On a winter’s snow-covered backdrop, they become visible. And spend afternoons resting as a group, dotted upon the opposite bank.

Several years ago, they spent an afternoon there; while we, inside our house, looked out, pleased that the warm sunshine and still air would soon be welcoming spring. From time to time, one would stand and resettle herself a few yards to the side or start a game of tag with another young doe, bounding in circles, returning to rest. For the better part of the day they stayed, rooted to that spot, comfortably safe.

As evening approached, they rose to move on—all but one.
Her head gracefully laid back, the large doe that led them to this spot lay still, in the midst of her family, reclined in the sun. One by one, the others went to her, tentatively investigating her quietness--sniffing, nose-to-nose. They seemed to hesitate—unsure whether to stay, or go.
Then, slowly walked off into the woods.

Her body was still warm as I touched her—though her eyes were closed, chest still. Not a mark hinted of any trouble—perhaps she’d simply grown old.
Exactly when she’d died that sunny afternoon on the bank, we weren’t sure. But I wondered if she’d known her moment would be soon and brought her family to this spot to stay with her.

Over the next few days, we watched as her family returned to her side, with each pass through the creek bed, lingering there, sometimes resting with her, as they had days earlier.

By springtime, her body had returned to the earthen bank.



The path is worn daily, by deer seeking food, the cover of brush, the safety of the woods.
And behind the sycamore, is a perfect resting spot.

My window seat

When we were house shopping 15 years ago, transplanted from upstate New York to southwestern Ohio, we settled upon this old, 1835 brick farmhouse, situated atop a hill in a rural area. It needed a ton of work, as many “historic” homes do, but it offered a unique spot for us, for it snuggles up to a wooded ravine.
Perched between large, old hickories and countless sprouting locusts, we look out over sycamores and redbuds dotting the banks, and down upon a little stream bubbling along in early spring, filled in by summer with bee balm. Almost immediately we began construction on an addition—extending to within 6 feet of the woods’ edge—with lots of glass on 3 sides.
It’s my window on the world.


This morning, a dusting of snow reveals the many tracks of what is usually hidden here—barely visible against the brown, leafy backdrop. Watching, as the morning sun begins to cast long shadows through the trees, I feel as if the curtain is being raised. The stage is lit, the show is about to begin, and I have the best seat in the house.

I’ve done my best in these very cold days, to keep the feeding stations filled. It’s a daily task—and the air still holds the heavy scent of lard, from rendering fat from suet. Muffin tins and cookie sheets are filled with cakes—but think twice before you grab a snack—it’s most likely bird food!

The ground beneath the feeders has been worn bare of snow—scratched by towhees and fox sparrows. But against the snowy woods, silhouettes in the darkness become bright cardinals, purple finches and blue jays—the only spots of color against brown branches.
Three days ago, I looked out to these feeders and found the action frozen in place—the usual flitting of chickadees, titmice, wrens and nuthatches, oddly ceased. There, a few feet away, a sharp-shinned hawk patiently waited for carelessness.



Today, the deer, using the frozen stream bed as their highway from the oakstand in the back woods, have come up toward the feeders to browse the few shriveled leaves of the honeysuckles. Up in the hole of the sycamore, a squirrel peeks out, testing the morning air. A pileated woodpecker hops from tree to tree, spiraling to the bottom of each—then flying methodically to the next. Only the downy, hairy and red-bellied visit the feeders.

Pileated Woodpecker on underside of horizontal branch, 1/4/08

Pileated on dead tree, 1/1/08

I could sit here all day, watching their world from my window.


Birds seen from my window January 1, 2008
Fox Sparrow, Red (pictured)
Song Sparrow
White-throated Sparrow
American Goldfinch
House Finch
Purple Finch
Carolina Chickadee
White-breasted Nuthatch
Carolina Wren
Tufted Titmouse
Dark-eyed Junco, Slate-colored (pictured)
Eastern Towhee
Brown-headed Cowbird
Northern Flicker
Downy Woodpecker
Hairy Woodpecker
Red-bellied Woodpecker
Pileated Woodpecker (pictured)
Blue Jay
Cardinal
Mourning Dove (pictured)
European Starling
Sharp-shinned Hawk

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.