Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Sunday, January 19, 2020
|Clivia from Cate blooms six months later.|
|A Downy Woodpecker visits.|
"Not I," said Ursula, the crafty black dog. "I am but a humble pup. Low to the ground. I could never jump all the way up there."
"Who me?" asked Cullen, the sweet brown dog. "What's going on, guys? Can I help? What you got there?" He has finished his kibble and run out to join us, his tail wagging his whole body, he joyfully tosses his head. I pick up the broken bird feeder and carry it back to the house. It's a mystery.
|Red Bellied Woodpecker|
Who could have pulled it down? I need a chair from the kitchen to fill it, and even then, I have to stand on tiptoes and gently lift it from the bottom to pull the wire over the hook. My husband is taller than I am, but Michael even has to stand on an old stump, though he can easily reach it from there. It had to be someone tall, who could stand on two legs and reach eight feet in the air. It had to be someone strong, who could pull it down with ragged paw, because now I see that the wire has snapped. Imagine, for a moment, a shaggy brown figure, shambling across the yard, stopping to sniff, trembling nose high in the air, pointing her head this way and that, to test the breeze. She detects a scent of fat and sunflower seed and changes directions to head straight for the bird feeder.
She pauses directly below and then lumbers to her
hind legs. If we had been watching from the kitchen, we might have seen a stealthy
brown paw reach up from below the frame of the window to bat at the caged suet
cakes, setting the feeder to swing wildly until one terrible claw extended to
hook around the wire hanger rips it from its hook. I ponder for a moment and
remember that my grandmother knew the exact year the last black bear in Piatt
County was killed. I wish now I’d written it down. She probably knew who shot
it, too. It was before she was born, but she recollected having to sit on her
own grandmother's bearskin rug as the old woman regaled the grandchildren with
stories. She never claimed the coveted stool that sits now by my uncle’s
fireplace, since it was always occupied by her elder cousins. All through my own
childhood we used to fight to sit on the same stool. I realize that Piatt
County bears were black, not brown, and revise my image from a shaggy brown paw
to a sleek black one batting at the bird feeder.
|Another view of the Clivia|
Or maybe it wasn't a black bear either, but what my father used to call "little brother bear," a raccoon, or a whole gang of them, clambering up the hackberry tree that stands at the corner of our house, to drop down onto the bird feeder, making a swing of it until their weight breaks the wire hanger and the feeder drops to the ground, suet and all. They tussle it over to the driveway and break open three out of four of the cages and lumber away with the suet.
I hear the door open and Michael comes out with his coffee. He listens as I tell him my two theories about the suet cage. He picks it up and looks at the wire closely, pointing to where it’s rusted through. Leave it to my husband to spoil a couple of perfectly good theories.
Visualize Beauty; Imagine Peace; Blessed Be
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
“I’m not sure I’ll make it home in this, Siri.”
CONTINUE READING IN THE NEWS GAZETTE
|Hedge Apple Tree|
|Cullen: Mighty Hunter|
|Who Goes There?|
|Wandering the old Union Station, Indianapolis|
Click to CONTINUE READING
|Fox and the Grapes at Newfields|
|Lemon Tree, Very Pretty...|
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
|Pedestrian Bridge Crosses White River|
|Limestone Wall along River Walk|