It’s Dogwood Time

It’s time for the dogwoods to bloom. There are many bigger dogwood trees around, but ours is still quite small.

The robin is enjoying the spring morning sunshine while he wonders about the petal count of these flowers.

Most flowers have a number of petals that fall into the Fibonacci sequence, a mathematical sequence in which each number is the sum of the two preceding ones. So it goes like this: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144 … and it goes on forever.

Our Pacific dogwood usually has between four and six petals, so it’s different from most flowers which tend to follow the Fibonacci sequence.

Next time you’re in a flower garden, see which flowers you can find that have either  3, 5, 8, 13, or 21 petals. You’ll be surprised at what you find.

*Fibonacci sequence was used and further explored by an Italian mathematician, Leonardo Bonacci, who was called Fibonacci, possibly as a name made up from “filius Bonacci” (son of Bonacci). He was born about 1170. Yes, about 850+ years ago.

I bet he loved doing puzzles or writing code.

So what’s the next number after 144? The first nine commenters got it easily, so how about the next three numbers?

 

It’s Just Lunch

This is a post I did ten years ago, but I was reminded of it this morning when I heard the unmistakable DEE-di-di-di-di of a merlin in our nearby wooded area.

Warning: This is from a sad but true story that happened in my own yard back then (ten years ago).

 

The songbirds always let it be known when there’s a killer in their midst, be it a cat, a raccoon, a hawk, or a crow. Today, it seems that every bird in my little acre was shrieking with alarm — not just the usual robin whose nest was threatened, but the chickadees, nuthatches, and many others as well. When all the birds sing happy songs, it’s background music, but when they sound like several fire alarms going off, something is wrong. I went out onto the deck to have a look.

In the tall firs next to the house, many songbirds were divebombing a predator who sat and watched from her perch on a dead broken branch. I ran back into the house for my camera. The merlin (a small falcon) didn’t seem to care about me being there. She was either a juvenile or brazen or both. However it was, she allowed me to take many pictures, even posing a bit.

She ruffled her feathers, being Mrs. Cool. I’m not afraid of you!

The songbirds set up the alarm in the whole mini forest around my yard. A chickadee and a nuthatch, both tiny birds who are often chosen by the falcons as appetizers, bravely sat on the branch directly behind the merlin, scolding her.

The merlin merely gave them a look that said, “Who? Me?”

Then she looked down at the ground to see if her lunch was still there. I suspected she had done something because she had blood on her hands … er … beak.

“Yes, it was me,” she said. “I’m not proud of myself.”

She shrugged her shoulders.  “It’s just lunch.”

My little puppy, Emma, found the falcon’s intended lunch, lying on the ground below the tree. A juvenile red-shafted northern flicker, one of my favourite birds in this area.

I was choked. I don’t want to hear another person say a word about “Mother Nature.” There is nothing “motherly” about nature. As beautiful as nature is, it is also very cruel when we apply our human values to it. But that’s how it has to be.

And I do think the falcon was sorry.

I waved my arms but the falcon didn’t want to fly away. It was only when I opened the big patio umbrella that she flew off. The songbirds settled down and silence hung in the air.

When I picked up the flicker, a single tail feather fell to the ground and as I walked away, I heard one lonely bird calling. It had to be the mother giving one last quavery call to say an anguished goodbye to her baby.

 

My apologies that the story is so sad, but life can be like that sometimes.

Red Hot Pokers

The hummingbirds and Bullocks oriole share the red hot pokers, but not at the same time.  These photos are from another year, as it’s a bit early for the pokers to bloom, but I was inspired by Cindy Knokes’ oriole photos to dig out my oriole photo. Please visit Cindy’s blog too, if you haven’t already done so. https://cindyknoke.com/2024/04/21/goldies-2/

The red hot pokers soon will bloom,

Just waiting for some sun,

Then to their petals I will zoom,

And hover till I’m done.

 

The juicy nectar waits for me,

I stretch my long tongue down,

To lap the sweetness running free,

Within the petals round.

 

I need to hurry – sip and fly,

Ere Bully Bullock comes,

I do my best to drink it dry,

‘Cause he and I aren’t chums.

 

 

I am an emperor of birds,

You see my royal stance,

I rule the land with so few words,

It only takes a glance.

 

It could be that it is my size,

I’m not a little hummer,

I feed on flowers, they’re my prize,

Especially in summer.

 

 

But one thing hummers share with me,

That is our love of bugs,

The creepy crawlies that we see,

They simply call us thugs.

 

 

The hummers take the tiny ones,

To suit their appetite,

While I eat big ones by the tons,

I’m not a little mite.

 

 

And so we share the poker plants,

There’s food enough for all,

In time I’ll go and eat some ants,

And any bugs that crawl.

 

 

 

Adventure Playground

Oh, my goodness! See that woodpile,

I’ll explore it quite a long while,

Please don’t stack it. Let it stay ’round,

It’s my own Adventure Playground.

Sweet the smell of new cut firewood,

Forest fir, a fragrance so good,

Freshens up my furry coating,

“I’m so special,” I’ll be gloating.

Now the truck has left at last,

I’ll explore and have a blast,

Careful though, the wood may slide,

And I could get stuck inside.

So much wood to climb up on,

I can duck in and be gone,

Just in case the heavens rained,

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

We Do It All the Time

Photo by Ken Thorne

A True Horror Story as told by “The Captain”

 

What a day for fly fishing! Coho jumping and finning in front of us. A beach fisherman’s dream. But how quickly things can change. Here I was, loading my fly rod back into the truck to return to town without even wetting a line.

I had set up my friend, Brad, for fly fishing; even giving him one of my hot, specially tied blue-green streamer flies to guarantee his success. But I hadn’t counted on his lack of technique. With beginner’s luck, he was into a finning coho right away, but within seconds, the lightning fish spit the hook. In his eagerness to hook another fish, Brad’s backcast became an errant sidecast. The fly whipped by my head and on its return stung me on the nose like a mad hornet.

And there it stayed.

I tried to work the hook out of my nose, thinking of the coho slime now embedded in my face. It wouldn’t budge.

“You won’t get it out without help,” Brad said. “It’s stuck right in the cartilage.”

On the way back to town, Brad stole frequent glances at my nose and sporadic snorts of laughter escaped him. “Sorry,” he wheezed.

I glared at him, but moments later his shoulders bounced again.

It was a relief to drop off Brad at home. I continued on to the hospital with the truck’s sun visor down in case I passed anyone I knew. I parked close to the Emergency entrance. Head down and hand cupped over my nose, I strode up to the reception desk. A bubbly young nurse looked up at me. “Can I help you, sir?”

Uncovering my nose for her eyes only, I said, “Can you get this off me?”

“Ooh! Oh, my goodness,” she blurted out. “We’ll put you behind this curtain. I’ll get the doctor right away.”

Quick, light footsteps approached. A short, slight woman stood by my bed. “Been fishing, have we? I’m Doctor Payne.”

“Hi. Can you get this thing off my nose? Have you ever dealt with this kind of thing before?”

“Don’t worry. We do it a-a-all the time,” she assured me. She brought a needle up to my nose. “This may sting a little, but it will freeze the tissue so we can pull the hook out.”

“I don’t think so,” I hurried to inform her. “There’s a barb on the end. I crimped it, but apparently not enough. Believe me, I tried to pull it out and it won’t budge. Hurt like hell, too.”

“In that case I’ll push it through to the other side and cut the barb off. Then I can pull it back out.” I was thankful for the freezing as she pushed the hook through.

Dr. Payne left to find a tool. I was puzzled and disappointed when she came back with a pair of worn, old wire cutters. I had envisioned something more sterile and surgical. With much squeezing of wire cutters and accidental twisting of my nose, the tiny woman worried the tempered steel of the fly hook, all to no avail. At this point, I offered to go find my gear pliers and do the job myself, but she insisted, “We do it a-a-all the time.”

When she left the cubicle, I touched my nose gingerly. It was swollen and probably bright red. Add the decoration of blue-green feathers and I was thankful for the curtain surrounding the bed.

The intercom paged Dr. Birley and momentarily he and Dr. Payne appeared at my bedside. The man dwarfed the little woman. He took the wire cutters and, with an outward flip of his elbows, and a shuffling of his feet to find the most comfortable stance, he prodded the hook to find a good grip.

Dr. Payne’s face was almost as close to mine as Dr. Birley’s. “NO, Doctor, NO!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got tissue. Doctor Birley! You’ve got tissue!”

Dr. Birley straightened up, raised his head, and looked down his long nose at Dr. Payne. He tossed the wire cutters onto the tray by my bed. The last I saw of him was his wide back passing between the cubicle curtains.

Dr. Payne hurried after him. A moment later, the intercom announced, “Maintenance … call Emergency. Maintenance … call Emergency.”

All was quiet and I was drifting off to sleep, but my eyes flashed open when I heard the receptionist’s shrill voice. “Oh, my goodness! I wouldn’t let anyone go near my face with those things.”

Alarm bells clanged in my mind. My eyes must have been huge when Dr. Payne walked in carrying a pair of red-handled bolt cutters that were almost half as big as she was. I wondered what grungy task Maintenance had last used them for. The tool’s great iron beak settled on my nose like a turkey vulture, but seconds later, the hook was out.

I thanked the doctor and as I left the hospital, free of my feathery affliction at last, Dr. Payne’s words still echoed in my ears. “We do it a-a-all the time.”

 

Robins Changing Their Tune

 

Where is my mother? I want to be fed.

Need her soft feathers a-warming my head.

Safe in our nest with her covering us,

We will be quiet and not make a fuss.

 

 

Home’s getting crowded now. What a tight squeeze!

Hurry. Get stronger, wings. Carry me, please.

Life is too cramped in this wee, little nest,

Out in the real world, I know it is best.

Emma’s Sea Monster

By the side of the beautiful Similkameen River,

A cooling off place needed to be explored.

The water was perfect.

Well … almost perfect …

Except for that sea monster sticking its head up,

Checking me out.

I decided to put on a brave face,

And challenge it.

Maybe it would go away and leave my swimming area.

And yet … it wasn’t to be easily intimidated.

I kept my back legs ready for a quick retreat,

Just in case.

I called big sister, Ruby, over to check it out.

I felt a bit foolish when she had a quick look,

Turned, and said, “Nah! It’s just a stick.”

“Huh!” I said. “I knew that.”

But now I have egg on my face.

Or maybe a piece of a pine needle.

Oh, well. It’s better than being eaten,

By a sea monster!

 

The Owl’s Lunch

When owls eat, they don’t have the best table manners. Unless the animal they are eating is too big, they swallow it whole.

Unlike many other birds, owls (and herons, grebes, cormorants, and several other types) don’t have a crop where they store food before it goes into their stomach. The eaten “food” goes straight into the glandular stomach where enzymes and acids begin the digestion. From there, the “food” passes into the muscular stomach which mushes up the softer parts of the victim, leaving behind only the undigestible parts like the bones, fur, and teeth (or feathers if it was a bird that they ate).

Then hours after the edible parts are liquefied and have passed through, the owl throws up the leftovers. The official way of saying that in “bird study talk” is that it casts a pellet.

Here is a pellet that an owl left behind on top of an upturned aluminum skiff in  our back yard.

I got an old pair of tweezers and took the pellet apart to see if I could find the bones.

If you click on the photo, you may be able to get a better look.

To the right of the larger long bones, you can see five tiny claws and below those, I have laid out the very thin long bones that I think might be rib bones.

One piece of fur was not matted together, and I thought it looked like it might have belonged to a rat. Also, I think the long bones are too big for a mouse.

Below the piece of fur at the top of the bone collection, are some of the vertebrae.

Some parts are missing, and they might have passed through the owl, or possibly been part of a second casting. Just guessing here.

I made sure to wash my hands and sterilize the area where I put the bones and fur. If the owl’s meal was a rodent,  it might have been carrying some bacteria or viruses.

Some people may find this post gruesome, but I thought it was a fascinating part of nature that we don’t often see.

Daffy Dolls

I don’t know if the full moon on March 25th had anything to do with spring arriving.

I don’t know if the rain had anything to do with it either.

But perhaps they helped the daffodils bloom as they told me spring was here and it was time to send Easter greetings.

The picture of the clouds reminded me of  my mother pointing out to me, when I was a child, that when you see the clouds sweeping down to Earth the way they are in the middle photo, that meant that it was raining over there where the cloud was. I was amazed at how she could know that, especially when, at that time, I still thought that when it rained, it rained everywhere.

The daffodils also reminded me of my mother because, when she was still struggling to learn English when we came to Canada when I was six years old, she could never get the word “daffodils” right. She always called them “daffy dolls,” and in my mind, I still call them that and think of her.

Happy Easter to all my blogging friends, and happy spring!

Looks Aren’t Everything

As Easter time is drawing near,

With menus contemplated,

I feel I’ve nothing much to fear,

My life is consecrated.

 

The turkey and the piggie’s hams,

Are not as worry free,

They’re eaten with a plate of yams,

While I watch from my tree.

 

In India, I’m semi wild,

I am the national bird,

I am protected like a child,

To harm me is absurd.

 

And yet, some farmer’s love me not,

Because I eat their grain,

They poison me and hope I rot,

To never eat again.

 

My feathers bright, a detriment,

They draw the danger in,

But always it’s my sentiment,

My beauty lies within.

 

And this is why I like to be,

In Czechia far away,

A lady there loves only me,

So this is where I’ll stay.

 

She feeds me walnuts, seeds, and grain,

She sweeps away the snow,

I live a life of bliss, no pain,

Now I know where to go.

 

I serenade her with my call,

I guard her house all times,

My cry is loud and heard by all,

She need not fear for crimes.