Backyard Vacation

by Wanda G. Black

The whir of the hummingbird darting by
The sight of the buzzard, floating high.
The robin defending its hidden nest
By chasing away the cowbird pest.

I sit out here and swing along
As I listen with joy to God's nature song.

And as I listen to each trill and peep,
I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Love to you Be and all the wonderful folk at EF!!

NOTE:
These pictures were taken at my sisters cottage in Maine where I go each year to relax, sculpt and watch the birds with my Mom & Dad.
The picture of the woodpecker was taken in my back yard a few months ago.

When I wake each day one of my favorite things to do is go outside with my coffee and sit for a bit. I have bird feeders all along the tree line of my property and each day the variety of birds that visit me is amazing. Birds of every color and hue, melodic sounds as they sing to each other, and the beauty of the day always inspires me. I've been feeding them for so long now that many who are regular guests to the feeders tolerate my presence quite well. I am probably a bit of an oddity to them as I sit with a steaming cup of coffee, glasses somewhat askew and my outfit...well, out in the country early in the morning, let's just say, there's no need to dress up.
The picture is of a Cedar Waxwing that I took last year. He was most annoyed that I'd disrupted his breakfast and looked at me like, "Lady, are you still here?"

I grew up as a young child in the country and the stories of fae were told to me by my Grandmother and Mother. This was and still is my favorite poem.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
 For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.

-- William Allingham