Tuesday, May 27, 2025

A pair of robins recently began nesting on a beam in my barn’s hay storage area. Their nest sits about twice my height above the ground. I pass near it several times daily to gather hay and fill feeding nets for my equines. I’m always aware now of a robin watching me intently from above. I try to avoid disturbing them too much—I want them to stay. In my heart, I secretly hope that one of these birds is my robin. It’s wishful thinking, I know—but it speaks to a very human need to reconnect with something we’ve loved.

My robin was real. A fledgling that had fallen from a tree in my dogs’ area. Its parents were nearby, agitated and noisy—enough to draw my attention. Fearing for its safety, I scooped up the little bird and moved it to a safer, dog-free part of the property. Its parents would continue to feed it for a while, but that baby was still vulnerable to hawks and other predators. I relocated it again to protect it more, but this time, the parents gave up. And so, I became its guardian.

That was during the waning days of the COVID pandemic, when supply chain issues made it nearly impossible to find live mealworms—essential for a young robin’s diet. Determined, I finally tracked down living night crawlers from a fishing supplier. I’d snip the crawlers into pieces, dunk them in water for hydration, and feed them to my little one, who lived in the garage and began to thrive.

As the fledgling grew, I started setting it between feedings on the lower branches of a mature pine tree. Upon my return, it would flutter onto my shoulder, ready for another meal. Before long, it began flying to me from higher and farther branches. The bird was maturing—and I knew it might leave me.

Still, I hoped. I dreamed that it would return someday with a mate and nest nearby.

Then one day, it was gone. I called and searched, heart heavy. The loss was immense. I still hold on to the hope that it survived—that it found its place in the world.

Every summer since, I’ve watched the robins around me more closely, wondering if any of them might be the one. None have been. But now, this new nesting pair shows no fear of me. One watches quietly as I pass, not alarmed enough to flee. Could it be my bird? I’ll never know—but I can hope.

Dear friends: The emotional connections we form—especially with those we’ve nurtured—run deep. And they last. Diana

Wednesday, May 22, 2024

My camera captured this watching bird from a great distance. The image is good but surprising because I couldn’t recognize the bird type. Its coloring suggests a woodpecker, but it has a seed-eater’s beak. This probably is of a common variety, and wanting to know has encouraged me to download an app that identifies birds from photos. I will learn the answer after uploading this photo from my computer to the phone app.

I love photographing birds, and they can be challenging. They’re fast movers and can test a photographer’s skills. There are thousands of species, each with a unique appearance and behavior. Some are incredibly beautiful, and it’s thrilling to capture their assets.

Photographing wild birds, even on or around my property, connects me with nature. Spending time observing and appreciating brings peace, relaxation, and inspiration. Plus, I’m learning, about different bird species, their behaviors and habits.

Bird photography is educational and enriching; there’s always something new to discover and capture. Bird photography and bird-watching teach lots and inspire sharing because almost everybody loves birds. And in the world of birds, there’s much to love.

Dear Friends: A bundle of challenge, diversity, beauty, learning, and sharing. Diana

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

My house is under siege by two tiny birds, apparently mates, taking turns tapping unendingly into a lower corner of a high window. They’re working too high for wingless me to reach them without a 20-foot ladder. Little by little a hole grows. The birds are tiny—chickadees or nuthatches—but determined. I watch and yell to no advantage.

Their chosen window is precisely where a Northern Flicker drilled a large hole years ago. Apparently, birds are attracted to high spots protected by an eve. I love birds but would drive away these littles. I yell and threaten, but they ignore me. The long-ago Flicker left an unsightly hole that, finally, a house painter made to disappear.

Now, here we go again. This time, it’s a bird tiny enough to leave space in my palm.

They’re so high up it’s hard to tell, but I think a Chickadee bird pair is tapping into my house. My first impression was that the birds were Juncos, but a Junco doesn’t drill unendingly.

It’s a wonder seeing these tiny birds pecking into my house siding, determined to create a nesting space. A little research says that they can and won’t give up until they do.

Dear Friends: I’m becoming an unwilling nest host to bitty birds. Diana