I love this time of year. Like the famous 'box of chocolates' you never know what you're gonna get.
I awoke one morning this week to frost - the crunchy confectioner's sugar kind of frost that blanketed my flat, grassy back yard like - well, confectioner's sugar icing!
When I first looked out at 6:00 AM, I only saw the fog that hung over the Spring green lawn and hedges. Only one-half hour later, I saw that the fog had risen, and I gasped with joy when I saw the frosty grass.
I awoke one morning this week to frost - the crunchy confectioner's sugar kind of frost that blanketed my flat, grassy back yard like - well, confectioner's sugar icing!
When I first looked out at 6:00 AM, I only saw the fog that hung over the Spring green lawn and hedges. Only one-half hour later, I saw that the fog had risen, and I gasped with joy when I saw the frosty grass.
It's a source of pleasure that our back yard is fenced in - so the dogs can play safely - also hemmed in with nicely trimmed hedges that give us privacy, but not isolation. All the trees around us rise above the hedges, and the sound of bird chatter early in the morning makes me smile, for most of it comes from the very social sparrow, titmouse and finch clans that live in the hedges! Above and all around them, then, are the bigger birds, in a hierarchy that goes like this....
The cardinals love to be high in the soft boughs of the pine tree in my son's yard 100' away. They sing, "Birdie, birdie," in the early morning sun as it streams, weakly, through the heavy mist before daybreak, or, this day, the fog. Around them, but never in the same branches or even the same trees, the blue jays yap at one another and anyone else too sleepy to move far from their discordant calls.
Often high atop the stark tree my neighbor left behind when another tree - closely entwined with it from its sapling struggles - fell down, sit the bigger birds; doves, red-winged blackbirds, starlings and our red-headed woodpeckers. They take turns swooping down to the ground under the bird feeders to feed with gusto what the frisky smaller birds have strewn about carelessly. Because our feeder offers access to nine small birds at a time for feeding, there are lively lines at our automat, and they get rather messy, too. The big birds, then, act as vacuum cleaners of my husband's pride and joy - the soft, supple, and velvety grass he has nurtured since his retirement.
The cardinals love to be high in the soft boughs of the pine tree in my son's yard 100' away. They sing, "Birdie, birdie," in the early morning sun as it streams, weakly, through the heavy mist before daybreak, or, this day, the fog. Around them, but never in the same branches or even the same trees, the blue jays yap at one another and anyone else too sleepy to move far from their discordant calls.
Often high atop the stark tree my neighbor left behind when another tree - closely entwined with it from its sapling struggles - fell down, sit the bigger birds; doves, red-winged blackbirds, starlings and our red-headed woodpeckers. They take turns swooping down to the ground under the bird feeders to feed with gusto what the frisky smaller birds have strewn about carelessly. Because our feeder offers access to nine small birds at a time for feeding, there are lively lines at our automat, and they get rather messy, too. The big birds, then, act as vacuum cleaners of my husband's pride and joy - the soft, supple, and velvety grass he has nurtured since his retirement.
The birds are brave, and now stay at the feeder even when I am gardening, or reading. Friends sit and chat there, with us, the dogs roaming, sniffing, sleeping under the hedges in the heat. Once in a while, one of the dogs jumps up and takes off in a combination dash and bouncing leaps when she hears the dogs who live behind us barking through the fence and hedge. It took awhile, but the birds are used to this, too, and ignore our regular routine, and the "normal" noises that we make.
In the same size range, but a different class, the robins tend to huddle in the stark tree only if no other birds are waiting their turn at the breakfast buffet below. They occasionally watch the social gathering from their perch, but usually, they choose to watch from the leafy and full maple tree farther away. They don't eat here - we have another buffet of sorts, more to their taste. Because we live within 400' of the largest natural lake in New Jersey, we have a nice moat around our house....well, it's really a trench with not one - but two - sump pumps removing water from around our foundation, avoiding flood waters in and around our hot water heater, furnace and extra refrigerator! After winter's meltdown - for a month or so - these two hoses quietly but with reassuring dependability (knock wood - that we don't suffer a power failure on late winter/early spring's wild, wooly, windy days!) discharge gushing, warm water across our driveway into our unused side yard (where the grass grows with gusto, I might add)!
It is in this area that the robins find big, undulating, juicy worms, for the worms litter the driveway as Spring - and the discharge water - warm up. It is also a happy spa-like setting for all kinds of small to medium-sized birds. The starling, robins and even our little sparrow fraternities frolic in the low side of the macadam driveway. I love to see the water splashing around, imagining the joie de vivre and physical therapy they experience when they splash about, and then groom - with tiny beaks - feverishly combing their feathers out. I can empathize...my morning shower loosens up these misaligned bones, warms up my reluctant joints, and, yes, freshens me for the day's tasks and physical demands....sort of like the old "Zest" soap commercials!
This frosty morning, however, every bird in our squared-off, hedge-lined yard woke up a little slower than usual. The sounds across the grass seemed so subtle and sleepy when I stood outside, my winter robe grabbed from the hook when I realized the chill was not just my old bones, but a rare wintry chill upon the earth. I stepped onto the cobblestone pavers of our patio, and noted, right away, that the bird bath was iced over. Next, I noticed that there was that beautiful iced frosting on the grassy blades (my husband had just cut the grass a day before). When I turned to our adirondack settee, it looked so summery and inviting, that I went back inside for warm slippers and a cup of green tea, and, yes, my camera! With the sun yet weak, I thought it would be nice to have my tea and photo ops bundled up, but ready to receive and record the sun when it made an appearance.
Just before I went outside, I also grabbed a pitcher and put some warm water in it for the bird bath; I broke that thin ice, shook it onto the grass, and added the fresh water so it'd be ready for the sparrow/finch/titmouse spa they enjoy about an hour after breakfast (did their moms tell them to wait after eating to go in the water, too?).
I didn't have to wait very long. I'd brought my book and cheater peepers with me, sat just a bit - again, wondering that no birds were visible, yet I heard the cardinal calling quietly, and, as always, the chatterboxes - the small birds, gossipping in the hedge.
When the sun came through, it was warm, right away. I felt each beam - I am sure - that lightly tapped me on the shoulders, coming from behind the settee. Soon, I realized, I was missing the real show, and when I stood up and turned 180 degrees to see if the sun was really visible, I was pleased at the show of brave light at the tops of the low trees, and amazed at how fast the sun was rising. Soon, it caused a dappled pattern on the frosty grass, and my dogs, not event tempted to test the crunchy grass with their little paws (our furbabies don't appreciate cold or wet weighing down their shaggy feet), stretched out as if to receive solar power from the sudden sunbeams. On their bellies on the warming stones, they waited for a sign from me that they, too, would eat soon. They are not disturbed by the birds and their activity, but watch them, cocking their heads, from side to side.
By the time the sun - a small but defined ball of brightness - reached the top of the medium height maple trees between properties, I had shed the robe, and was sitting, in my PJs, with my cuppa and camera, happy as a lark and now, as if sensing my singing heart, the chorus started! First the sparrows decided to chance the bird feeder, and soon, happily crowded at the feeder, and atop the clothesline, like the coffee room at the last job I worked, with this and that to talk about.
A few minutes later, I heard the male cardinal's call to the world, and, yes, he was way at the top of a tree, not quite hidden from view. So cautious, the cardinals know they are safe in our yard, and have nested for three years in our rear hedge - and during nesting time, they know they will not be disturbed, for that hedge is not cut during egg and fledgling nesting and nurturing. When I heard him calling out his joy for the day, for the sun, for a mate, and for life, I felt like singing, too. I guess I could have sung "Morning Has Broken," a favorite hymn, and Cat Stevens recording...but the cardinal surely would have flown from my joyful but wanting vocals.
Soon, a blue jay came a-calling, and another at the same time. I couldn't get my camera fast enough, for this was only the second time I'd heard the cacophony of brazen, brassy arguing between the two large males. This time, like the last, I didn't get a good photo, as they far preferred to continue their argument elsewhere, than let me photograph it like desperate paparazzi.
The largest birds - the rotund mourning doves - usually waddle around with the other large birds, not intimidated by their focused feeding. The doves eat with determination, not hiding, nor trying to muscle anyone aside. They just coexist, peacefully - with the tiny boarders of the boxwood - and the larger, flashier avian gnoshers. I hear their cooing in the pine trees in the evening and early morning, but this morning, they didn't want to walk on the spiky, stiff grass, either, for I didn't see them at our outdoor cafe.
I heard the woodpecker as he sounded a Morse Code-like ratamacue to try to break through the bark of the old tree on our other corner. He's too big for our feeder; he can climb aboard the obelisk shaped, squirrel-resistant column, but it sways far too much for comfort, and the sparrows look upon him as I would the Titanic on the North Sea...too scary for them, and for him, too, I guess. He has decided not to work that hard to get that little in the way of sustenance.
I finished my tea, and, knowing my granddaughter would be coming over this school day to catch the bus at our house, I turned to pick up my cup, my book and my pince nez glasses, and looked over my shoulder, one more time, reluctant to leave what would surely be a great awakening and festival of feeding, as the sun grew even stronger as it raised higher. I had to be a human and get my chores done, and the birds had to get their needs taken care of, too. At that moment, I grabbed my camera, and took this photograph - of peace in portrait format - to keep this memory and this joy in my heart for many days to come. I cherished the surprise of the frost, the reassurance of the birds still wanting to stay by us, and the absolutely joyous joining of voices - theirs and mine - as we greeted the day! As I turned to walk in, I heard a little tinkly, quick sound, and saw one sparrow drink, then splash, in the birdbath...Morning had broken....
In the same size range, but a different class, the robins tend to huddle in the stark tree only if no other birds are waiting their turn at the breakfast buffet below. They occasionally watch the social gathering from their perch, but usually, they choose to watch from the leafy and full maple tree farther away. They don't eat here - we have another buffet of sorts, more to their taste. Because we live within 400' of the largest natural lake in New Jersey, we have a nice moat around our house....well, it's really a trench with not one - but two - sump pumps removing water from around our foundation, avoiding flood waters in and around our hot water heater, furnace and extra refrigerator! After winter's meltdown - for a month or so - these two hoses quietly but with reassuring dependability (knock wood - that we don't suffer a power failure on late winter/early spring's wild, wooly, windy days!) discharge gushing, warm water across our driveway into our unused side yard (where the grass grows with gusto, I might add)!
It is in this area that the robins find big, undulating, juicy worms, for the worms litter the driveway as Spring - and the discharge water - warm up. It is also a happy spa-like setting for all kinds of small to medium-sized birds. The starling, robins and even our little sparrow fraternities frolic in the low side of the macadam driveway. I love to see the water splashing around, imagining the joie de vivre and physical therapy they experience when they splash about, and then groom - with tiny beaks - feverishly combing their feathers out. I can empathize...my morning shower loosens up these misaligned bones, warms up my reluctant joints, and, yes, freshens me for the day's tasks and physical demands....sort of like the old "Zest" soap commercials!
This frosty morning, however, every bird in our squared-off, hedge-lined yard woke up a little slower than usual. The sounds across the grass seemed so subtle and sleepy when I stood outside, my winter robe grabbed from the hook when I realized the chill was not just my old bones, but a rare wintry chill upon the earth. I stepped onto the cobblestone pavers of our patio, and noted, right away, that the bird bath was iced over. Next, I noticed that there was that beautiful iced frosting on the grassy blades (my husband had just cut the grass a day before). When I turned to our adirondack settee, it looked so summery and inviting, that I went back inside for warm slippers and a cup of green tea, and, yes, my camera! With the sun yet weak, I thought it would be nice to have my tea and photo ops bundled up, but ready to receive and record the sun when it made an appearance.
Just before I went outside, I also grabbed a pitcher and put some warm water in it for the bird bath; I broke that thin ice, shook it onto the grass, and added the fresh water so it'd be ready for the sparrow/finch/titmouse spa they enjoy about an hour after breakfast (did their moms tell them to wait after eating to go in the water, too?).
I didn't have to wait very long. I'd brought my book and cheater peepers with me, sat just a bit - again, wondering that no birds were visible, yet I heard the cardinal calling quietly, and, as always, the chatterboxes - the small birds, gossipping in the hedge.
When the sun came through, it was warm, right away. I felt each beam - I am sure - that lightly tapped me on the shoulders, coming from behind the settee. Soon, I realized, I was missing the real show, and when I stood up and turned 180 degrees to see if the sun was really visible, I was pleased at the show of brave light at the tops of the low trees, and amazed at how fast the sun was rising. Soon, it caused a dappled pattern on the frosty grass, and my dogs, not event tempted to test the crunchy grass with their little paws (our furbabies don't appreciate cold or wet weighing down their shaggy feet), stretched out as if to receive solar power from the sudden sunbeams. On their bellies on the warming stones, they waited for a sign from me that they, too, would eat soon. They are not disturbed by the birds and their activity, but watch them, cocking their heads, from side to side.
By the time the sun - a small but defined ball of brightness - reached the top of the medium height maple trees between properties, I had shed the robe, and was sitting, in my PJs, with my cuppa and camera, happy as a lark and now, as if sensing my singing heart, the chorus started! First the sparrows decided to chance the bird feeder, and soon, happily crowded at the feeder, and atop the clothesline, like the coffee room at the last job I worked, with this and that to talk about.
A few minutes later, I heard the male cardinal's call to the world, and, yes, he was way at the top of a tree, not quite hidden from view. So cautious, the cardinals know they are safe in our yard, and have nested for three years in our rear hedge - and during nesting time, they know they will not be disturbed, for that hedge is not cut during egg and fledgling nesting and nurturing. When I heard him calling out his joy for the day, for the sun, for a mate, and for life, I felt like singing, too. I guess I could have sung "Morning Has Broken," a favorite hymn, and Cat Stevens recording...but the cardinal surely would have flown from my joyful but wanting vocals.
Soon, a blue jay came a-calling, and another at the same time. I couldn't get my camera fast enough, for this was only the second time I'd heard the cacophony of brazen, brassy arguing between the two large males. This time, like the last, I didn't get a good photo, as they far preferred to continue their argument elsewhere, than let me photograph it like desperate paparazzi.
The largest birds - the rotund mourning doves - usually waddle around with the other large birds, not intimidated by their focused feeding. The doves eat with determination, not hiding, nor trying to muscle anyone aside. They just coexist, peacefully - with the tiny boarders of the boxwood - and the larger, flashier avian gnoshers. I hear their cooing in the pine trees in the evening and early morning, but this morning, they didn't want to walk on the spiky, stiff grass, either, for I didn't see them at our outdoor cafe.
I heard the woodpecker as he sounded a Morse Code-like ratamacue to try to break through the bark of the old tree on our other corner. He's too big for our feeder; he can climb aboard the obelisk shaped, squirrel-resistant column, but it sways far too much for comfort, and the sparrows look upon him as I would the Titanic on the North Sea...too scary for them, and for him, too, I guess. He has decided not to work that hard to get that little in the way of sustenance.
I finished my tea, and, knowing my granddaughter would be coming over this school day to catch the bus at our house, I turned to pick up my cup, my book and my pince nez glasses, and looked over my shoulder, one more time, reluctant to leave what would surely be a great awakening and festival of feeding, as the sun grew even stronger as it raised higher. I had to be a human and get my chores done, and the birds had to get their needs taken care of, too. At that moment, I grabbed my camera, and took this photograph - of peace in portrait format - to keep this memory and this joy in my heart for many days to come. I cherished the surprise of the frost, the reassurance of the birds still wanting to stay by us, and the absolutely joyous joining of voices - theirs and mine - as we greeted the day! As I turned to walk in, I heard a little tinkly, quick sound, and saw one sparrow drink, then splash, in the birdbath...Morning had broken....
As Sung by Cat Stevens
lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word.
Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass.
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day.
You have more going on in your backyard then on the Show Jersey Shore
ReplyDeleteYes, it is a sanctuary for me and the creatures who visit me. I cherish the moments spent there, even as I enjoy the world universal outside my hedge and gate, because....
ReplyDeleteTo everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun...
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
You MUST publish your writings! You MUST!!!!! They are beautifully written and so extremely descriptive that the reader is there with you throughout the read. "Hard copy" is in order!!
ReplyDelete