Freshwater Literary Journal 2021

Gaylord Brewer Home Birding What a pleasure to refill the birdbath with clean, cool water for the Robin’s relief as heat marches unrelenting into Autumn. The Cardinal too arrives thirsty, and the Blue Jay’s screech is, I believe, appreciative. The feeder does steady business despite the squirrels’ tireless scheming. A fine Red-Bellied Woodpecker has been a regular lately; his distinctive chuck-chuck brings me to the window. Also of that family, we have the Downy, the occasional Flicker, rarely the unmistakable hammering in the woods of the grand Pileated at its work (and once in twenty years, not one but a pair investigating the lawn!).

Nearby, in a peculiar microclimate of a few hundred yards, and nowhere else, we’ve seen the rakish Red-Headed.

There’s hardly space to catalog the chorus of my friends, the common abundance of Nuthatch and Sparrow, Chickadee, Titmouse, and Wren. The pensive coo of the Mourning Dove. And even now, sometimes a new arrival.

Who’s that inquisitive little fellow on the porch, looking in? Cerulean Warbler, according to my books. Welcome! At the tree line, rustling just out of sight among fallen leaves, I hear the Rufous-Sided Towhee. I love the migratory visits of the Indigo Bunting, iridescent, and the large and handsome Rose-Breasted Grosbeak (unfortunately, not seen for years). Perhaps once each winter a flock of Cedar Waxwing amid bare branches. The Ruby-Throated Hummingbird, meanwhile, departs the first week of October, as if on cue, suddenly and without farewells. I cheer when the Goldfinch—what my folks called a “Wild Canary” when I was a boy—takes on his glowing yellow plumage, announcing summer has arrived. The irregular visitor of the Brown-Headed Cowbird, the Mockingbird who prefers the suburbs, and, just as well, the bully Starling. A dozen years ago, a pair of elusive Crimson Tanager, male and female, that appeared after Jasper died and as I buried him between the hydrangeas beneath Claudia’s window, the augury of their purring song I still associate with grieving. After three days, they departed.

Speaking of dogs and birds: If we get out early, before it’s too hot for her, we can walk with Lucy to the creek. Of late, we’re likely to see Turkey, a rafter of attractive hens. Yesterday I counted twelve. Approaching the water, we may scare up the Great Blue Heron, that grand, flapping dinosaur of a bird, maybe Canadian Geese or a Mallard. On a good morning—and come winter we can go all the time—we’ll chart the Belted Kingfisher, creature of water, earth, and sky, swooping back and forth low over the mirroring surface. The thick body, dagger-like bill, rattling call directing our attention.

I’ve written before of the parliaments of young Screech Owl that for many years I summoned nightly from the woods with my mangled song, but never of the Great Horned Owl I once saw in the twilight, the tip of a cedar 34