Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I know I don’t blog about birds as often as I should, but hey, it’s not like birds aren’t getting their due in the blogosphere.
The funny thing about tourism is that designating certain areas as worthy of the foreigner’s inquisitive gaze immediately calls their authenticity into question, so that a tourist in search of — for example — the Real London must steer clear of the guide books and rely instead upon the idiosyncratic recommendations of Real Londoners. Continue reading “London off the beaten path”
Mom wanted to go one way, the fawn wanted to go another. Continue reading “When life imitates Disney, it’s time to start packing”
Earth Day is bullshit. (My favorite comment on the day was from nature writer and curmudgeon Chris Clarke on Twitter: “I am to Earth Day as @Space_Kitty is to St. Patrick’s Day. Prefer to stay home while everyone else vomits green for a day.”) It’s true that I decided to begin serializing qarrtsiluni‘s long-overdue Animals in the City issue yesterday, but that was sheer coincidence. Looking at the past six years’ worth of updates in the sidebar of The Morning Porch, I notice that it’s the day after Earth Day—April 23—when I seem to have my eyes and ears the most open:
April 23, 2008
A male starling—a rarity here—lands among the cherry blossoms, iridescent black feathers speckled with white. He gargles musically.
April 23, 2009
A moment of sunlight illuminates the yard. Water seeps from the mountain’s every pore. The starling is doing its best to talk like a duck.
April 23, 2010
Mid-morning sun: I’m almost baking until the wind blows, cool as midnight, the chitter of goldfinches interrupted by a raven’s cronk.
April 23, 2011
Four gray squirrels interrupt their chasing to scold the feral cat—a Two Minutes’ Hate. In the corner of my eye, the zip of a winter wren.
April 23, 2012
Snow falling faster than it can melt. Unto every one that hath shall be given, says the sky: hawthorn and bridal wreath now twice as white.
April 23, 2013
Clear—but how clear? I notice a faint haze in the sky near the sun. Off in the woods, the white cloud of another shadbush coming into bloom.
Since April 8th, a pair of black-capped chickadees has been hard at work excavating a den hole in the stumpy remains of the dead ornamental cherry beside my front porch. The hole even faces the chair where I usually sit. Wildlife watching has never been easier! And to think that just a couple of weeks ago when I was cutting up the fallen top of the dead elm in my yard, I strongly considering taking out the cherry snag as well. It’s not a thing of beauty — but it is rather charismatic nonetheless, I said to myself, and besides, if you care about biodiversity, you can never have enough standing dead trees.
It’s really quite astonishing to see birds with such small bills hammering away at the cherry wood and hauling out the sawdust one beakfull at a time. This morning I was up early enough to watch them start work. The couple appeared together in the lilac, flitted over to inspect the hole, then flew up — I presume to grab a quick bite to eat. Seconds after the whistle blew at the paper mill in Tyrone two miles away, the chickadees returned to start their shift, spelling each other as in the video (which I shot yesterday morning), and keeping up the pace for hours.
With two large black snakes living in or around the house, I have my doubts about whether this couple will be able to raise a brood here. Follow The Morning Porch to stay updated on their progress.
A male hummingbird
circles the metal pink
flamingo in my garden,
circles & touches it
with its all-purpose bill.
Amazed? Perplexed?
Combatative? Appalled?
The sun sinks behind
the trees & the first
katydids start calling
as the hummer zips
in for a landing on
the single rusty leg,
perching sideways
just below the tail,
& taps the pink wing
with its diviner’s
wand of a bill.
To the thrush singing at the woods’ edge
it must look as if I’m hitting myself
but that’s only incidental.
I’m swatting mosquitoes.
*
To the cops at the stadium
it might appear that she’s praying
when she closes her eyes
to see the afterimages on her eyelids.
*
To friends & admirers of the legendary coach
it must’ve seemed so generous,
all the things he gave those boys,
all the places he took them.
*
To us it’s a mournful song
but to the wood thrush itself?
Perhaps just the sound of dusk
passing through its windpipe.
Inspired in part by the currently serializing Fragments issue at qarrtsiluni.
If you’re a regular reader of The Morning Porch on Twitter or elsewhere, you know I’ve been following the progress of a northern flicker nest in the dead elm tree on the other side of the yard. I first noticed the presence of a pair of flickers around the house back on April 30:
Two days before my friend from England arrives, my inner voice sounds like a tour guide: Those are flickers. Hear how they croon their name?
— Dave Bonta (@morningporch) April 30, 2012
Just-hatched eastern phoebe nestlings in the portico over my front door.
