Nesting

July 2015/L Herlevi

Sitting down to read in the park, the feral duck quacks its bass voice, while behind me a ruckus from the flickers.  Going over for a closer look, I see it's a cavity nest with one baby looking out, and another up on a branch.  Adults nearby.  The one on the branch later decides to go exploring, hopping and struggling along the ground, avoiding people and dogs.  It made its way to the shore, whereupon I lost sight of it, couldn't find it when I finally went to look.

N Flicker, July 18/L Herlevi 2015

Baby, July 18/L Herlevi 2015

N Flicker Baby, July 1//L Herlevi 2015

Sunday

Out to the lake this morning, just to read.  I stopped to observe one of the osprey (there were five the other night, diving toward the water, occasionally splashing down, but never catching anything; either for practice or maybe they are juveniles and don't know how to catch fish yet; the trout were leaping out of the water at the time, so it was kinda' surprising they didn't make a catch) who I'd been hearing calling out.  Someone else stopped and told me it was an osprey (which I knew).  Anyway, we got into a conversation about urban wildlife sightings.  He mentioned seeing an otter in the lake, I'll have to keep my eye out for that.  Also, coyotes in Golden Gardens.  Told me his friend had encounter a buck in the I-90 tunnel, so slowly followed it until it escaped out the other end.

Been seeing a lot of raccoons and rats lately; the former ambling down the sidewalk mid-day, the latter making a mad dash from one cover to the next.  There's a lot of crow babies out and about, too.  There never seems to be a break from their crying out for someone to feed them.  A bumper year.  Someone commented that they didn't like all the crows, but we have the wildlife that will live with us, that thrive in our presence.  If we want others to thrive, we need to leave spaces for them to do that.

We had a bit of cooling off yesterday, but today, it's back to heat.

A bird-y morning

Roused from a deep sleep I didn't realize I was in (I somehow thought I was already awake, but found myself wandering the house in a daze) by the screech of the smoke alarm going off.  Finally I convince myself that it is our house, so get up, put on clothes I can go outside in, and grab a phone and ID, and go out to see if anything is actually burning.  I shall point out that no one else felt the need to get up and evacuate.  Nothing.  It goes off a few more times.  I finally find a roommate to consult, he says he knows about smoke alarm installation, and then when it goes off again, pulls down the stand-alone detector from the stairwell.  When I come back later, it goes off again.  So that wasn't it.

Even though I'm running a sleep deficit (too hot to sleep), I decide to go out to the lake to get some writing done.  I head toward the bleachers, but am drawn to a quiet, empty, shaded bench instead.  Moments after I sit, a light figure flashes into the trees nearer to the water.  "Hawk", I think.  Banded tail, Cooper?  I begin to write, a breeze kicks up and rattles the leaves.  The bird shoots out from the tree, I hear the splash on the water, it circles low to return to the same perch, talons empty.  An osprey.

I write two pages, the saplings bend toward the water from the breeze.  I decide to move on.  In an opening, I stop to gaze out at the water.  A family of geese drifts into view, pausing to feast on some algae, then swims over toward me, and comes ashore to my right.  The adults look askance at me, then waddle off to graze on grasses.  I walk on.  Lots of people setting up picnics and picking out sites for the day.  I hear drumming, look up to see if there is someone playing; realize it's actually a woodpecker (Hairy, I think) drumming on a snag in search of insects.

It flies, spooked by a dog, and I move on.  The lily pads are in bloom.  Silent.  A month ago, the patches were full of the thrashing of massive carp, who now, done with spawning, lurk at the bottom of the lake.  Everywhere, swallows circle and dive.

I return later, relief from the heat of the house.  The geese drift gracefully.  Mama ducks guard over new hatchlings.  Small trout leap for bugs.  The osprey call out unseen, in a series of chirps, but don't leave the trees.  Small insects gather by the thousands, swirling up in columns higher into the sky than I can make out.  Darkness falls, people return home, and the day dwellers go to rest.