Another spring brings another owl baby. While I can’t tell if it’s the same owl family, it’s interesting that a Great Horned Owl family would use the same tree cavity to make their nest every spring to welcome their newborn(s), year after year.
Here it is, about a month ago, a brand new baby peeking out of the nest. Can you spot baby owl in this picture?
And now a few weeks later, baby has grown to almost the size of mommy owl, and the family has vacated their nest. So, it’s wonderful to see them out on a tree. Baby still has the downy coat on, but what impresses me is mommy owl—I like to think it’s the mother owl staying close to baby, as father owl usually goes to find food—like a sentinel watching closely, looking noble and stoic:
But of course, a mother is always a mother, and baby is always her baby, no matter how big he or she has grown. I’m glad that I was able to capture these endearing moments, albeit a little blurry since they were very far up a tree from a distance. Baby’s on the right in these pictures:
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(Glitches while posting this. Have to repost. Previous post entitled Baby’s Day Out. Issues with the date. This post is published on Saturday May 27, 9:40 am.)
The passing of Gordon Lightfoot yesterday at the age of 84 evokes a stream of nostalgic consciousness. The following is an old post dating back to more than ten years ago. I wrote it after visiting Unionville in Ontario; the profusion of cattails by the pond stirred up memories of listening to Lightfoot’s song. As a tribute to the Canadian music legend, I’m reposting it here.
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Took a short trip to Ontario last week and came home overwhelmed with nostalgia. It all started when I visited the town of Unionville and saw these, crowds and crowds of cattails growing profusely at the pond, the fields, and by the footbridge:
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For some inexplicable reasons, I’m much fond of cattails. The first time I learned about them was from listening to the song by Gordon Lightfoot… before I’d actually seen one.
Some time in the 70’s, for many afternoons I sat in the art room of a high school somewhere in Alberta, working on some art project, but mostly doing nothing at all while listening to Gordon Lightfoot. Mr. Hannington held a laissez faire art class… we could do just about anything, or nothing. Usually, there would only be three or four of us in the room. We would just sit around, chat, daydream, and immerse in the voice of Gordon Lightfoot on the radio.
I didn’t turn out to be an artist, while one of us did. But I’ve remained partial to cattails, mesmerized by the song and the singer. Those Lightfoot afternoons in the art room emerged from the depth of hazy memories, the lyrics were the soft winds caressing naked limbs as I walked in this natural reserve in Unionville.
Pussywillows, cattails, soft winds and roses Rainpools in the woodland, water to my knees Shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
Catbirds and cornfields, daydreams together Riding on the roadside the dust gets in your eyes Reveling, disheveling the summer nights can bring Pussywillows, cattails, soft winds and roses
Slanted rays and colored days, stark blue horizons Naked limbs and wheat bins, hazy afternoons Voicing, rejoicing the wine cups do bring Pussywillows, cattails, soft winds and roses
Harsh nights and candlelights, woodfires a blazin’ Soft lips and fingertips resting in my soul Treasuring, remembering, the promise of spring Pussywillows, cattails, soft winds and roses
(To my artist friend CD: Keep the fire burning.)
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Some of you had left comments in that old post. If you’re interested to know what you had said, click on the link to find out.
April may be the cruellest month for the poet, but for me, it’s a time for newness and hope. It’s Easter month, but winter’s not totally gone yet for us, despite the official arrival of spring according to the calendar.
Many of you might be enjoying colorful roses blooming in your garden, this is what I see when I head out to the woods today––the last day of March––snow-covered creek and dried cattails from autumn past:
But the Pond is teeming with life, a cacophony of bird calls from everywhere. Here’s our first robin coming back from afar, the sure sign of spring:
Plenty of buds for the hungry chickadee:
And from afar, a coyote, which doesn’t look too enthused about the changing season. I’ve to warn a mother pushing a baby carriage nearby:
On the river, it’s a different picture:
It’s courting season already. The male Goldeneyes doing their mating dance… stretching their necks upright and singing their tune. The females (brown heads) don’t seem too interested though:
Oops just a bit too close. It’s been a few months of house-bound inactivity, don’t mind me getting excited for a better pic:
Today is a balmy 5C (41F) winter day. Sunny with no wind, and the Pond is teeming with life and beauty. For the first time in two months, I take my camera out and soak up the scenery.
The chickadees which flutter even in -20’s temperatures are out in full force. Glad to see woodpeckers too, basking in the sunlight:
Yes, those are buds on the branches!
Glad to see a family of deer out enjoying the afternoon sun. This one comes right up to me, maybe hoping for a snack:
While I’m glad to see the woods teeming with activities, what capture my attention are the ice patches, melting and dripping in the warmth of this mid-winter afternoon:
Buds on tree branches and melting ice in January? Just a mid-winter interlude of hope… like a mirage in the desert. No matter, I’m enjoying every bit of this new year blessing.
“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.” –– George Eliot, in her letter of Oct., 1841
Successive autumns, and never will winter come. What a marvellous thought! Just yesterday, we had our first snow, icy reminder for what’s to come. But the forecast is that we’ll get back to some warmer, seasonal autumn air in the coming week.
I like to dwell on those sunny days of fall. We don’t have many red leaves here, but the rusty and golden hue all around the pond is enticing and fresh.
Many birds have migrated south. So, I was surprised and delighted to see this one still lingering …
A Great Blue Heron in this part of the Pond by late October is rare. Like Proust’s madeleine dipped in tea, serendipitous sightings like this can last through many winters as fond memories conjure up during the shut-in, wintry days.
And with this little Proustian teaser, I’m dropping a hint of what’s to come on Ripple Effects in November. Stay tuned.
It was in a nature reserve adjacent to the Royal Botanical Gardens in Burlington, Ontario, that I saw my first Cardinal. A bird that might be common for many of you, but for me, it was my first time. And what a delight!
Early morning in September, a perfect day for birding. Soft sun rays illuminating the boardwalk, mesmerizing:
Saw my first Northern Cardinal in some low bushes. Here’s my first photo. The curiosity is mutual:
And after that, I was looking for reds all the way and had taken many more pictures of the bird with its habitat mainly in the southeastern part of North America. There were other birds and fields of goldenrods but it was red that I sought. I wasn’t disappointed. Had the chance of meeting a few other Cardinals, including the female and the juvenile:
Common, ordinary? Purely relative.
The sun emerged brighter, this time, shedding light to illuminate the mind’s eye, storing fond memories, an indelible reminder for me to return in the future.
From afar I saw it. At first not paying much attention, for it looked like some kind of black bird but then I saw the long legs. Umm… maybe some sort of sandpiper? No, it’s not spotted or light brown but dark. And the most prominent feature was the long, down-curved bill.
Stepping closer quietly, I saw its deep maroon, multi-coloured plumage. Magnificent, maybe even magical. I haven’t seen this bird before.
Many of you might be able to ID it, but I had to do a lot of digging into Google search to discover what I’d just seen was a GLOSSY IBIS (Plegadis falcinellus). From Wikipedia, here’s the origin of the name: The scientific name derives from Ancient Greek plegados and Latin, falcis, both meaning “sickle” and referring to the distinctive shape of the bill.
And why am I so excited about seeing it? Look at this distribution map:
The glossy ibis can be found along the east coast of the United States from Maine to Texas. In the winter it lives from the Carolinas south to Florida and along the Gulf Coast to Texas. It is also foundinCentral America, South America, Africa, southern Eurasia and Australasia.
And where am I? In Alberta, Canada. From the map above, the second province from the west coast of Canada. Why is this glossy ibis here? A stray? Off course during migration? Or, just needs some cooler and crisper air up here?
I just couldn’t help but moved another step closer and that was it for my short discovery. It flew away but in a circle, coming right back at me, as if saying farewell, then disappeared into the distant sky:
I sure hope it will find its way back to where it belongs… But fine too, if it feels the Pond is a safe, new home, however temporal. You’re welcome to stay!
As I look through my photos taken in the past few weeks, I find that the prominent colours are yellow and green. We don’t have bright red birds like the cardinal, so, I’ve long settled for yellow, green and blue as my summer colours.
Two goldfinches made my day, vibrant golden yellow. They seemed not to be bothered by my presence as they were too busy with their breakfast:
well except this one with attitude:
Another sort of yellow, unintended, for I was aiming at the wren. Only when I uploaded the photo did I notice the lichen on the stump:
Sometimes, an accidental shot needs not be deleted. Why, this looks like an impressionist painting to me:
This one most symbolic, for the colours yellow and blue remind me of a war-torn country with millions of her people fleeing from their homeland. May this tiny yellow warbler, always so full of life and song, be a symbol of resilience for the ravaged country of Ukraine:
A few days ago, I happened to catch sight of a jolly yellow warbler bathing (or playing) in the water. He plunged right into the shallow stream, splashed around, after that flew up on a branch preening, singing, then splashed right back into the water and do it all over again just for the fun of it.
I’d like to tell you it was a bright, sunny day, inviting a cooling summer splash. But I can’t because it wasn’t. The day was grey, overcast, chilly even and with a thunder storm in the forecast.
This tiny warbler’s joie de vivre defies the gloominess of the day or any imminent storm… a mighty hard lesson to learn from a three inch creature.
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
This year, there’s only one owlet at the Great Horned Owl household. Since the coming-out party, the family’s debutante is poised to become the star of the woods. Birding paparazzi converge and they’re not disappointed.
But first, a Where’s Waldo quiz for you. Can you spot mama and owlet on this tree:
Ok, blame it on my blurry pic. Mama’s on the top of the picture, baby at the bottom. Can’t see clearly? Here are some close-ups:
Mama is always nearby… the lower right of the photo gallery.
And this little one is a natural talent for the movie screen. Here are some photos for the audition portfolio:
CONSIDERING
DEMURE
SUSPICIOUS
Thank you… yes, this fluffy coat is very comfy… I like it too.
High Park is a natural oasis in the hustle and bustle of Toronto. Almost 400 acres, it’s the largest park entirely within the city proper. The Grenadier Pond on the western boundary of the park spans 35 acres and a key resource for the teeming variety of wildlife.
Its urban setting reminds me of Central Park in NYC which is twice as large. Unlike the entirely manmade Central Park, however, High Park is the remaining sandy soil of retreated glaciers with a long natural history dating back to 12,800 years ago.
Here’s a lookout from Grenadier Pond:
Grenadier Pond in High Park, Toronto
About three weeks ago I visited High Park for the first time. It was early spring. Leaves had just started budding on trees and paths were still wet from winter, but I was able to capture some of the vibes:
Can you ID them all? I’m most curious to know what kind of tree buds are those on the upper right corner above. They look velvety and utterly exquisite.
As a birder, of course I was on the lookout for avian sightings, especially those I couldn’t find here at my own small Pond. But it was the trees that stood out for me that day. First the budding willows by the south end of Grenadier Pond:
A budding willow tree
I also came by a grove of cherry trees that were yet to bloom. And as I walked to the Nature Centre in the north side, I found this glorious oak tree. Still bare without leaves, its form was magnificent… I’ve read that the predominant oak in the savannah of High Park is the black oak. I think this is one of them. Not sure if it would look better with fully bloomed foliage. Because, right now, it looks magical:
A Black Oak in High Park
Here’s an image from the webpage The Oaks of High Park, the illustration taken from the book Who Goes to the Park by Warab´é Aska, 1984:
“Spreading Oak”
I can imagine this spreading oak being a character in an animated movie just from this picture… and I can see how versatile it can be.
Ripple Effects 