It turns out that Jenney, my scooter, and I are both addicted to bird watching.
This past morning, as she and I proceeded on the trail around the farm checking the animals, it took us twice as long as usual. It had rained quite heavy the night before and the warm and windless morning seemed to attract no end of birds. They just kept popping up anywhere and everywhere in front of us as they individually searched for their own particular breakfast.
The first was a pair of robins, doing their bob, bob, bobbin’ along while searching the short-cut lawn for big, fat, juicy dew worms. The next was a single male bluebird sitting angular on the brace wire of the hydro pole. He flew down, again and again, each time picking up a small green caterpillar that had apparently blown from the white birch’s limbs from high, high above.
He must have had exceptional eyesight, as some that he flew directly toward were 30 or 40 feet across the drive. When his mouth was criss-cross full, he took off in the direction of the birdhouse where mom no doubt cuddled a clutch of wide-open mouths that had hatched from light blue speckled eggs a few days prior.
On checking the goat’s paddock, a king bird sat on the top wire, flying up repeatedly, each time catching a fly.
At the same time, in the same area, a pair of barn swallows dipped and dived as though they were weaving an imaginary net. A killdeer scampered the length of the goat path in the paddock and ducked under the fence into the pig’s pasture. She had four pair of her babies’ tiny feet pitter-pattering closely chain-like on her tail.
As the big black porkers grunted their usual friendly morning salutations, a pair of ravens, larger than crows, black as coal, gargled a series of deep-throated complaints regarding our right to disturb them while they snitched their breakfast from the pig’s trough.
Heading back the back lane in the direction of the bee yard, a tree swallow dipped down again and again, seeming to be snatching flies from the backs of the cattle pasturing there. And high overhead, a bobolink bubbled over in continuous song while flying slowly in high horizontal flight. And, too, from a nearby fence post, a meadowlark sang his wide open-mouthed, strong, pure, far-reaching song.
Jenney, my jitney, doesn’t like losing any time while going past the bee yard. She knows they don’t usually bother anyone, but on the other hand, she also knows the beekeeper could have well stirred them up by peeking into the hives, checking the honey, and they could be at any moment downright cantankerous.
Over the crest of the hill, on the downslope to the pond, the concerned cackle of momma turkey scattered her young, first into the long grass and then into the trees of our hardwood bush. We could hear her uttering scolding sounds and could detect the brushing of tiny wing tips on foliage as the young, stair-stepping from branch to branch, went higher, higher and yet higher. She had obviously seen Foxy, who, she knew, though trained not to, could well sniff out their whereabouts.
Long before we approached the pond, a pair of wood ducks’ whistling wings whirred up and away overhead, while a trio of Canada geese complained noisily of our quiet intrusion, but they still took to flight and followed the direction of the more conscious woodies.
A triangle of bullfrogs croaked, telling us what their collective thoughts thunk, and accented it with aquatic definition by diving plunk, plunk and kerplunk. Three ever-expanding circles wrinkled the placid surface of the crystal clear swimming-hole water.
Perhaps it is now time for Jenney to take me back to the house. I think it is time for me to grab a couple of hen fruit and make poached eggs on toast for breakfast.
Take care, ’cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105