There’s a trio of waist-high holly bushes on the property that never seem to fill out; never seem to outgrow the term “misshapen.” Over the years we began to realize that all the pruning in the world wouldn’t help them achieve any sort of suburban landscape symmetry. Why? Because the deer do all the trimming, browsing tender leaves and leaving discards all over the front porch. Earlier this month, we found the hollies supported another life — a tiny cup of tightly woven pine needles bearing three marble sized-eggs. Last night, we discovered the eggs had given way to tiny birds. Blind and almost featherless with their oversized yellow beaks straining upward for motherly fare.
Was looking through the files (read: images that somehow never seem to get deleted from the camera disk) and came across this one shot from my office window.
It was a very hot June day, and this robin, like everyone else on very hot days, seemed rather irritable. He walked to and fro, ranting as he went. He finally ran out of steam and sat in the grass, panting and with his feathers fluffed to vent heat. In the top shot, he sat at the edge of the building’s shadow; the other shot is what he looks like in all his glorious grouchy color.
Amazing bird. Less-than-amazing photo.