Away

I know a place
where the water speaks
in a seductive voice
calling me
away
as it slips over stones
polished smooth by its laughter,
flowing onward,
filling my soul
with the sound of the earth and of
life.

I know a place
where the wind sighs
with a mysterious breath
calling me
away
as it whispers through leaves
blushed red by its secrets,
blowing onward,
filling my soul
with the sound of the earth and of
life.

And in this place I am
one 
with the earth 

and
for just a moment
free,

then wishing 

for nothing more
than to follow the water 

and the wind
away.

It's great to love nature. But don't be stupid about it.

For as long as I can remember, I've liked to look at plants and animals (mainly insects) and try to figure out what they were. When the summer days got long and boring with nothing else to do, I would strike out on a walk around my parents' farm, stopping to peer into the stream that flowed out from the pond, or turning over rocks or dried cow-patties to see what was living under them.

I collected things in jars, and grew things in jars on my poor mother's kitchen island, some full of life when viewed under the microscope, and some just stomach-turning stinky. I collected skulls of small animals bleached white in the sun and snail shells hidden in the leaves in the woods. I collected insects of all sorts, and put them in the freezer to die (I considered this a much more humane way of building a collection). Once thawed, I put the special insect pin through them, and patiently arranged them into life-like poses on styrofoam meat trays, until they were dry enough to move to a collection box. I had plants in pots, and plants in aquariums, and was absolutely delighted to watch them grow.

As I got older though, the familiar path around the farm became "more of the same" and I found myself feeling restless. Sometimes I would strike out on a walk, not telling anyone where I was going, or even that I was going. In those pre-cell-phone days, there wasn't any way to call if I got hurt, or got lost, or decided I had gone too far and needed a ride back. But I was young, and told myself I was very careful, and I had my loyal dog Stanley with me; surely he would go get help if I needed it.

So Stanley and I would walk down the driveway and disappear into the thicket across the road. We roamed through woods of cedar, elm, and oak, overgrown with honeysuckle. Down the draw and up the other side...we found a stream with the most amazing caddisfly larvae, carrying houses that were at least an inch and a half long, made of leaves cut into neat little squares. We crossed Grandpa's pasture and made our way down the slough. Sometimes the sun would be low in the west when we finally made our way back to the yard. I don't know if it made my parents worry. If it did, they never let on.

It's hard to believe, but that was over 30 years ago, those years a "time-out" of sorts, spent working and raising a family of my own. Then about a year and a half ago, I was given a used Canon T3 camera. I bought a used 55-250mm zoom lens, and slowly started to explore nature again.

When I first started walking again, I stayed close to home, walking through the pasture that surrounds the house. Although I suppose there's always a chance one might come across a snake, I never did. The worst thing I had to deal with were the ticks. Just as I had done as a young kid, I walked my same trail day after day, and just as when I was a kid, I started to feel restless.

So one afternoon, there was a flock of black vultures in the second field (which is called the Barber field), circling around something large and black. It was too far to see what it was, and I decided that I needed to go find out. It turned out that one of my father's cows had died, and it was very sad. But that walk opened up a whole new world. I saw wildflowers that I had never seen. It seemed that with every step, there was something new. It was a small bit of paradise.

Over the rest of the summer, and through the winter, I walked a route that took me ever farther from home...through the Carey field (which encircles the house), across the Barber field, and into the Flint place, where I inevitably ended up in a patch of woods that runs along the creek. Although it isn't really that far, it is still quite "wild" since human beings hardly ever go there. I wasn't too worried though...I felt special and talked myself into believing that God "wanted" me to explore and find out what was there.

Don't misunderstand me...I was careful, but perhaps became complacent. Because even if something happened, I reasoned in my mind, I had a cell phone, and could call for help (never mind that often there was no signal there).

But the thing is, I'm really not very smart at all when it comes to reading the signs of nature. Oh, I've learned to recognize a few things, but for the most part, I stumble along, loudly and blindly, perhaps taking chances where I shouldn't take chances, and so far, I have probably escaped harm by sheer dumb luck.

The winter fields and woods are kinder, you see. The grass has died down, and the leaves are gone, and you can actually see where you're going. But as the summertime plants start to come into their own, things change.

And that brings me (finally) to my point.

On May 2, I stepped foot into my stretch of woods, and got a jolt of reality. For about 20 feet in front of me the woods suddenly came to life with rustling and crashing sounds, and the plants waved and shuddered as a herd of feral hogs were startled up from their sleep. It was almost as if this was all happening in slow motion, and I was frozen, unable to move. By the time I got my wits about me, they were gone. Lucky for me, they went away from me instead of toward me. I shouted at them, "Get on out of here you pigs!" more than once as I retreated in the opposite direction.

I knew there had been hogs in the area. I had seen were they had rooted up the wildflowers, and left nasty droppings in the woods, and even thought I heard piglets in the cane thicket one afternoon. But I told myself I was careful - that I'd see them before they saw me. Was I wrong. That close encounter put an end to the walks by the creek. Feral hogs are dangerous, and while I was very lucky that day, I'm not fool enough to think that my terribly inadequate senses can even begin to compete with theirs.

We've separated ourselves from nature, you see. We don't understand her ways, but our "superior brains" convince us that we are in control. We aren't. We are at Mother Nature's mercy. Probably nine times out of 10, I will get by with it because the animals fear me. But they shouldn't. They are master of the wild...I am the outsider, the weakling.

You hear about people being killed by animals. Mountain lions in California, African lions in Africa. black bears in New Jersey, grizzlies in Yellowstone, sharks in the ocean...it happens maybe a lot more than we realize. And probably in all of the cases, the humans thought they would be safe. But maybe they got careless, or maybe they didn't take the right precautions, or maybe they took risks they shouldn't have taken. And maybe it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So in my own case, I think I've managed to get by on just dumb luck. When I left the Flint place that day, I told myself I was lucky the pigs ran, and that I hadn't walked right into the middle of them before they did. I was lucky one hadn't turned on me, because there would have been nowhere for me to run (and honestly, I don't think I could outrun anything faster than a tortoise). The grass and the weeds were too tall for me to safely walk down there, and it was a sad realization that I wasn't going back anytime soon - perhaps after the hay was cut in the field.

"It's great to love nature. But don't be stupid about it." I had to remind myself every time I thought about going back to my woods.

I still walked in the Barber field, but it's a dangerous place too. With the cows fastened out, the grass has grown head-high, and you can't see anything that might be hiding there. I have scared up deer, coyotes, and a few snakes, and as I found out this weekend, there is at least one hog that has taken up residence there too. I recognize the signs now: the mud wallow; the trails through the grass where mud has rubbed off the pig's sides; the rooted out patches; the tracks; the droppings; the gouges in the trees from the tusks.

So now I have a decision to make. Just how much do I love nature, and just how stupid can I be and still make it back home? I'll have to think on that one a while.

Damage to the Barber field caused by wild hogs rooting up the ground.

On Life and Death

Yesterday we celebrated a life and a birthday. Lola was born four years ago - January 31, 2011 - and she came to live with us a short while later, a tiny little Chihuahua that fit in your hand. She amazes us all the time with her intelligence, and makes us laugh because she is so "tough" and yet so "wimpy." She is locked in to everything her "daddy" says, and always ready and eager to "go for a ride," she is a constant joy in our lives. We are blessed to know her.

Yesterday we also celebrated a life while we mourned the loss of Toby, "the bestest dog in the whole world," who graced us with his presence for almost 17 years. Always a constant companion for two young girls, Toby learned many of the very "non-doggish" things they wanted him to do. He could give a "high-five" using either hand; he could "sit" when he wanted to; he would roll onto his back and "exercise" by kicking his back legs when told. He was the caretaker for all of our other dogs over the years, outliving them all. And until his degenerating hips made it impossible for him to climb on the top of the storm cellar, he spent much of his alone time up there, overseeing the farm as its guard and protector.

He had a good and long life, and he was a constant joy in our lives...we were blessed to have known him.

Yesterday, I also celebrated the life of an anonymous little song bird, and mourned it's death.

I tend to anthropomorphize things I observe in nature, despite my understanding of, and agreement with, Darwinian principles. I know that had our Toby been born a wild animal, he would have died long ago. Nature doesn't tolerate the predator with hearing loss and arthritic hips. Nature doesn't have a conscience. The words "life" and "death" are the words that we humans use to describe the states of "being" and "not being" for a wild animal.

I realize that animals are capable of understanding of death, and many even mourn the loss of one of their own. But for the predator, there is no place for mercy...no tolerance for pity.

There was no guilt in the Merlin yesterday when it knocked the song bird from the air. There was no sorrow in the hearts of the songbirds who escaped. And as shocked as I was to see that interaction play out right before my eyes, I know that I shouldn't feel sad for the song bird either. Guilt and sorrow imply that what happened was wrong in some way. It wasn't. It was simply survival of the fittest playing out right before my eyes.

So to the Merlin, master of the swift aerial attack, I salute your speed and agility, your keen eyesight, and incredible ability to react and close in for the kill. And to the little song bird, I celebrate your life, and nature was blessed to have you in it.

It's a funny thing, this living and dying.

Remembering some old friends...

(This was originally posted on StarParty on 22 January, 2013.  But as summer gives way to fall, and the old friends are coming around again, I thought it might be fun to add it here as well.  cdf)

I don't remember my exact words when Richard brought home his first telescope, about 20 years ago.  But I imagine my response was either, "What is that?" or "Where did you get that?"  It was, he told me as he placed the red tube on the table, a telescope, and he had picked it up in a trade with a buddy of his.  He was quite happy with the trade too -- he had exchanged an old car stereo for the telescope and a Dalmatian dog (the dog, it turns out, wasn't really part of the trade, but was just hitching a ride to what would become his new home).

I am pretty sure when he showed me that telescope, that Richard got "The Look."  Although I didn't know it at the time, Richard had always wanted a telescope.  And now he had one.  It was a Newtonian design, a cardboard tube with a built-in eyepiece and an aperture of about 4 and a half inches.  Maybe he took it out that night for a look at the moon.  Maybe he even took it out more than once.  I can't really recall, since I didn't see the attraction of it myself.  But if he did take it out, it wasn't more than a few times.  Richard was young, always busy with one thing or another, and the red telescope eventually ended up in "the junk room" with other unwanted and unused objects.

It was a few years later, when cleaning out that room that I came across that telescope again.  "We'll just see how well this thing works," I thought, and I took it outside.  Now bear in mind that I knew absolutely nothing about telescopes, so I can honestly say the poor little red tube never stood a chance.  What do you think you can see through a 4.5" cardboard Newtonian telescope in the daylight, holding it in your hands?  I can tell you what...NOTHING!  The instrument got only that one trial, and with its failure, I concluded that it was just a piece of junk.  Into the trash it went.

I forgot about the red telescope, but apparently Richard never did.  Last year, we were watching some TV show about space, and he said, "I used to have a telescope.  Whatever happened to it?  I've always wanted one, even when I was a kid."  And I had to try to defend myself and tell him how that red telescope wasn't any good anyway -- that I knew it wasn't because I had tested it out one day -- and finally confess that I had thrown it away years ago.  I could tell he was disappointed, but he never mentioned it again.  But it was Christmas, and with that, I had my chance for redemption.  I suggested that maybe he might like to get a telescope, and we decided that he would shop around to see what kind he might want to get.  A week or so later, he placed his order for an Orion XT10i.

It was a long one-week wait, and when the scope finally arrived, Richard wasted no time in laying out all the pieces and getting started on the assembly.  Compared to the little red tube, the slick and shiny Orion telescope was a monster!  It was like replacing your '78 Pinto with a shiny new Corvette!  We named the telescope "Newton" -- an original name, right?  (It's consistent with our naming the Oscar fish "Oscar.")  Richard couldn't wait to get it out for a test drive!  He took it outside, sighted in the finder on a road sign and then waited impatiently for nightfall.

As newbies, I will readily admit that we knew almost nothing about the night sky.  We did know a few of the constellations -- shapes and names that we had learned as kids -- but that was about it.  We didn't even know the names of any stars to use to align the Intelliscope controller.  So we started out just pointing the telescope toward something and trying to find that something in the finder. I think we looked at the moon a bit.  Richard hmad seen some pictures of M42 on a website and suggested we try to find it.  He pointed the telescope toward the constellation Orion and scanned the area with the finder.  He stopped moving the scope.  When he looked through the 25mm Plossl eyepiece, I heard him utter what has become a very familiar phrase.  "Wow..."

And he was right.  The sight was nothing short of breath-taking.  Over the first few weeks, Richard took Newton out many more nights, but every session included (and usually concluded) with another look at M42.  But slowly we learned the names of different stars (although I wouldn't put money on our pronunciation!) and we learned about other targets in the winter sky.  Galaxies M81 and M82 were found just over the treetop one night.  The great Andromeda Galaxy, M31, was already so low in the sky early in the evening that it was difficult to see, but we searched for it and found it. Galaxy M51 is not a good winter target, but we searched for it in the glare of the streetlight below the hill. When we finally found it, we were the victors!  The dim "car headlights in the fog" galaxy couldn't hide from us!

Winter gave way to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall and with each season, Richard and I learned new names, and saw new and wonderful things in the night sky.  Now winter is here again, and when I walk out into the cold dark night and look up at the stars shining so brightly overhead, I can't help but feel a special fondness for what I see there.  The stars and constellations have become like old friends, passing overhead, each in its own season.  Orion the hunter, Taurus the bull, the Pleiades (known to me in my childhood only as the seven sisters), the brilliant star Sirius, Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper...I feel like I know them, and therefore they must know me.  Looking up into the night sky -- looking and understanding -- I think one can't help but be astounded by the immensity of it all, and appreciate just how profoundly unique, and incredibly special is our place in the universe.

Little red telescope, your legacy lives on.

A Temporary Refuge

The sun peeked through the trees at the edge of the thicket, melting the night's light frost everywhere it touched.  It found the cat sleeping in the thicket, and it's warmth caused her to stir.  She stood up and stretched, the long, lazy stretch of a cat who really didn't think waking up was that great of an idea.

But she had to get up.  Her situation was getting very desperate.  If she didn't find food - and find some very soon - she wasn't going to live to see many more late winter mornings.

She wasn't quite sure how she had gotten into this predicament.  After all, she was Himalayan, with a long creamy white coat, chocolate fur on her face, ears, and feet.  Her eyes were a piercing blue color.  She had been beautiful once upon a time, and she had been loved.

But then something happened that she didn't understand.  First her old woman had gone away, and now her old man no longer opened the door to let her in.  There were strangers who occasionally came to her house. She didn't know them, and she didn't trust them.  So she had taken refuge in the thicket.

But doing without the comforts provided by the old woman and the old man had taken a heavy toll on her. Her flea collar had long since stopped working, and her pretty pink collar, studded with rhinestone-shaped kitty footprints when new, was dirty and missing several jewels.  It chafed her neck where her long hair had gotten tangled around it.  Her once beautiful coat was matted and pulling loose from her skin in places.  Worst of all, she was starving.

She had roamed the thicket for a while now.  She had wandered as far as the paved road, sometimes sitting on the shoulder watching the comings and goings of the people who lived in her neighborhood.

She had passed by one house where she knew she might find some food.  She had considered going to that house, but there were risks in showing herself there.  The house had other cats, but it also had three large dogs.  Several times she made her way from the thicket across the field to the edge of the yard.  She sat and watched the routine of the house, and watched where the dogs were likely to be, and listened for the woman at the house to put out food for the cats.

But it was clear to her now that going to that house was her best, and perhaps only option.  She had to eat.  She left the shelter of the thicket, and made her way through the field to the edge of the yard where she hid in the tall grass, waiting for the woman to put out food for her cats.

It was late that evening when the woman finally came out.  Her desperation overcame her fear, and she dashed across the yard and launched herself right into the middle of the food bowls.  She was frantic as she grabbed the food.  "What's this?" the woman exclaimed.  "What are you doing here?"  But the woman didn't scold her, and didn't try to chase her away.  Instead, the woman put another small scoop of food out for her, then stood back to watch.  "You're starving to death, aren't you," the woman said with a troubled frown.

She finished the food, but tonight she didn't go back to the thicket.  She found a safe hiding place on the woman's carport and settled down for the night.

Over the next few days, the woman put out food for her, away from the other cats and safe from the dogs.  The woman talked to her, and tried to pet her, but she was careful not to let the woman get too close.  After all, she didn't know her, and she didn't trust her.

The weather was becoming more unsettled as winter gave way to spring, and  one afternoon heavy clouds moved in.  Certainly it was going to rain.  She had endured the rain many times, and her hiding spot on the carport would surely keep her dry.  But the woman came to the door and called, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty...." The door was open.  The house was warmer, and it was dry.  She slipped through the doorway into the woman's house.

Thankfully, the woman didn't try to pet her again.  Instead, the woman rattled a small dish of food and led her into another room.  The woman knew what cats needed.  There was a water bowl, and a clean litter box, and a large couch with a soft crocheted afghan over it.  The woman sat down the bowl of food.  She heard the woman say "I'll call you Sassy," as she left the room.

Was Sassy her name?  It really didn't matter.  The woman took care of her, even if she was rather annoying. The woman took off the used-up flea collar (it was good to be rid of it).  But then the woman stole the pink collar too.  The woman didn't like the matted up hair, and would often interrupt a nice nap with the snip, snip, snip of scissors cutting the mats loose.  When she had endured all of this that she could stand, she would hiss at the woman.  Usually it worked.  The woman would leave for a little while and let her sleep.

The days passed.  One week went by, then another.  It was a cold night, and she had gotten to know the woman.  She had begun to trust her.  As the woman settled down in bed, she lightly jumped up onto the woman's shoulder and lay there, watching as the woman fell asleep.

It was a Saturday morning, one of the warmest days of the young spring.  She wasn't starving anymore, and she felt more like her old self than she had in a long, long time.  She went to the door and called to the woman.  "Do you want to go out?" the woman asked her.  Such a question...not worthy of an answer.  But the woman seemed to understand, and opened the door.  She stepped outside and heard the woman close the door behind her.

She made her way through the field, and late that evening, when the woman began to worry and to wonder where she had gone, she got up from her nap, stretched the long, lazy stretch of a cat who really didn't think waking up was that great of an idea.  She wasn't concerned that the woman was watching from the kitchen window of the house.  As twilight set in, she carefully groomed the beautiful chocolate fur around her face.  Then with a final stretch, she walked to the edge of the field and disappeared into the thicket.  She did not look back.




Update  9/28/2013 - The woman finally saw the cat she called Sassy again in July.  The cat looked healthy enough, and she showed herself several more times during the last days of the summer.  But on September 28, the woman saw Sassy for the last time.  The cat's body lay in the grass on the side of the road.  The woman did not know what had happened...perhaps the cat had been hit by a car, or perhaps the large dogs in the neighborhood had finally caught her.  The woman gave Sassy a final refuge, burying her under the old oak tree.

An Unfortunate Case of Mistaken Identity

It was almost noon, and I was breaking up some ramen noodles  for lunch when the first text message came in.

"Dad wants to know what kind of snake this is," the message said.  "Hang on...I'm sending you a picture."

An email message popped up in my inbox with a link to the picture.  I opened it and there was a  gray sinister-looking snake, coiled up against the side of the house, head flattened out.   I looked closely at the picture and felt a little knot in my stomach.  It looked like a water moccasin, or cottonmouth as they're also called.

Ramen forgotten, I turned back to the computer and opened The Google.  "Cottonmouth snake," I typed in.  As the search results loaded, another text message came in.  This one was much more urgent:  "It was lunging at us and chasing us! And now it's on the porch and we can't find it!"

Of the cottonmouth, the Google said:

Agkistrodon piscivorus is a venomous snake, a species of pit viper, found in the southeastern United States. Adults are large and capable of delivering a painful and potentially fatal bite. When antagonized, they will stand their ground by coiling their bodies and displaying their fangs. Although their aggression has been exaggerated, on rare occasions territorial males will approach intruders in an aggressive manner.

Why on earth would a water moccasin be at our house?  The nearest body of water was the stock pond, about 1/8 of a mile or so down the hill.  But the why wasn't really important at the moment.  What mattered was finding the snake before it got under the house!  I grabbed my keys, left a message for my boss, and headed out the door.

All the way home, I was filled with dread, thinking about all the different ways the snake could get into the house (if you read my previous posts, you might remember that it's a very old house, with lots of cracks and gaps where critters can find their way in).  I thought about all the hiding places - the flower beds, the garden, the woodpile....  How would we ever feel safe again if we didn't find it?

But as I pulled in the driveway, the family motioned for me to stop.  They had it cornered up against the house, and didn't want to risk me scaring it off.  RAF was standing guard with the garden hoe, and we talked for a while, trying to get a better look, and trying to decide what to do.

Eventually we decided the best course of action was to shoot the snake, so we borrowed a 12-gauge shotgun and RAF killed it with one shot.

I put the snake into a bucket and took it to my mom's and dad's house.  My mom looked into the bucket at the snake and asked, "Did it smell bad?"  No, but it was sure aggressive I told her.

The next day I sent the picture to Dr. Knight, who teaches Biology at the local university.  It could be a cottonmouth, he said, but it looked more like a blotched water snake.  "But you still have to be careful around them," he added.  "They are very 'bitey.'"  How could I know for sure?  Look at the snake's eyes, he advised.  A cottonmouth has vertical pupils, like a cat, with deep pits and a very strong triangular shaped head.  The water snake's eyes would be round.

When I got home, I took a stick and carefully lifted the snake out of the bucket.  The pupils that stared out of his lifeless eyes were perfectly round.

"I didn't think it was a water moccasin," my mom told me later, "but I figured you two knew more about it than I did."  As it turned out, we didn't know anything about cottonmouth snakes after all.

Poor little blotched water snake.  Our fear and our ineptitude at snake identification brought a tragic end to his foray into our yard.  His coloration and behavior may have evolved they way they did because mimicking a cottonmouth gave him an advantage against his natural predators.  But, as Dr. Knight pointed out, the coloration that offers protection against natural predators becomes a risky way to dress when you bump into a frightened human.

A Splash of Color on a Dreary Day

It's late March, and while the morning started out with broken clouds and moderate temperatures, by mid-day the sky had gotten darker, the temperature colder, and it wasn't long before a heavy drizzling rain began to fall.  A stiff breeze blew from the east, and all in all, it was just what I would call "thoroughly miserable" outside.

Don't misunderstand me...I am absolutely thankful for the rain.  After last summer's drought, I will forever feel blessed to have days like today.  But it's the kind of day that makes you just want to curl up under a warm blanket with a good book, or snuggle down and take a nice nap.  I had taken the day off work, since school is out for spring break, but I couldn't really find anything that I wanted to do, so I spent most of the day doing nothing at all.  Every now and then I wandered into the kitchen and leaned on the counter, peering out at the gray skies and the rain.

I like looking out in our back yard, because, for whatever reason, it always seems to attract a variety of birds.  Among the birds I've seen in our yard are cardinals, blue jays, blue birds, nuthatches, titmice, crows, finches, sparrows, starlings, mockingbirds, chickadees, quail, mourning doves, thrushes, meadowlarks, and juncos.  I was amazed by the number of birds (and the red squirrel) that were out and about, even on a day like today!

But today, we had a special guest, sporting an interesting and unusual cap, splashed with red.  Our guest was a Pileated Woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus).

According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, the Pileated Woodpecker is one of the biggest, and most striking forest birds in North America.  I am just guessing, but I would say that this one was anywhere from 10" to 12" from the top of the red crest to the tip of the tail.  It was busy ripping bark off the stump of a dead pecan when I first saw it;  some of the bark pieces were tossed as far as 10' out into the yard!  As I watched, the bird worked its way down the row of trees, moving first to the mulberry tree, then on to this old red bud.  It worked its way around the trunk, tearing off bark, moving up and down the gnarled old tree before finally moving on to the next tree in the row.

Those old trees that seemed so attractive to the woodpecker may very well be one reason that the birds like our yard so much.  Most of the trees are at least 50 years old, and based on its diameter and a growth rate of about 1/8" per year, we estimate that the big oak in the front yard sprouted at around the time of the revolutionary war.

But I have plans to remove some of the older trees in our yard this spring, because they've become such a threat to the house.  One of the trees destined for removal is an old catalpa, which I've been told was planted in 1880 when the house was built.  Most of the tree has died, and I'm pretty sure the central portion of the tree is hollow.  I hope that the tree hasn't become the new home for this beautiful bird!  (Or for the red squirrel for that matter!)  What a tragedy that would be!  Now that I've seen this bird in the yard, I'll have to keep an eye out for it.  If it has moved into the catalpa, the tree man may have to come back another day.

---

Update:  3/22/2013 4:50 p.m. The Pileated Woodpecker was back this afternoon, and really did a number on the base of the old pecan stump!

There were three other woodpeckers out in the yard this afternoon...one downy woodpecker, and two Northern Flickers (Yellow shaft subspecies).  Flickers are very attractive birds, dressed in their humble brown feathers, decorated with black spots, a large black bib, and a splash of red across the nape of the neck.

In researching the identification for these birds yesterday, I came across the great site by The Cornell Lab of Ornithology, and decided to submit my bird sightings to eBird.org, a joint effort by the lab and Audubon.  I have officially submitted two checklists now, one for yesterday's sighting of the woodpecker, and a list with 9 species observed this afternoon.  Pretty cool, if I do say so myself!