The quince is not quite blooming yet, but I needed a picture of it for this post, so I took one from a couple of years ago.
This poor lonely quail is looking for a mate. Not sure there is one in the neighbourhood for him to find, but I made one up for him.
I quail at the thought of the poem I am going to inflict on you today.
“I could hardly wait for my breakfast of sunflower seeds this morning, folks. It was darned chilly overnight and I needed a few heat calories.”
“While Lincoln takes a break to go chase Della around the woodshed, I’m going to sneak a few sunflower seeds. But oh my goodness, they’re big. I wonder if I bit off more than I can chew.”
“Did you see that sneaky thief getting into my stash? I only turned my back for a few seconds to go tell Della that breakfast is served, and that foxy sparrow was into my food. I’m going to have to put some of these away for a rainy day.”
“Not too far away, and still under the roof. That will keep it dry.”
“Now stay! — I’ve seen Anneli do this with Emma. She points her fingers at her and says, ‘Stay!’ I’ll do what she does. Cool, eh?”
“Silly Lincoln. Every time he goes to bury a sunflower seed, I can zip right in here and help myself to his breakfast. Oh well, survival of the fittest (and smartest – that’s me). There’s a reason they call me a fox sparrow.”
Sharing shelter, that’s okay,
Sometimes it works out that way,
Sharing food’s another thing,
Since it can starvation bring.
Oh, all right, I get fed well,
But when seeds are in their shell,
It takes time to eat them up,
In my hands shaped like a cup.
Then along comes foxy sparrow,
Sitting on the jar rim narrow,
Helps himself to food that’s mine,
No permission here to dine.
Go ahead then, help yourself,
Sitting there upon my shelf,
I will have to be more wary,
Sunflower seeds I now must bury.
“Will ya look at that?” Emma says. “Branches all over the yard are bad enough, but that one that smashed into Lincoln’s house is huge. And it’s still up there!”
“I know! I saw the whole thing from inside my cedar hedge home when it happened.”
The Captain pulled the treetop off the woodshed roof with his old beater truck while the Admiral ran for the tape measure. Thirty feet snapped right off the top of a tree to the left of the woodshed.
And another long branch is still up there – it got hung up on the way down.
“Good grief!” wails Lincoln. “That was my lookout tree. The whole top is gone. And I had plans for all those cones left on the tree.”
“I feel just sick!”
The forces of nature make changes on Earth,
They make creatures realize what life is worth,
The wind can move trees and the branches around,
It howls and it yowls with a frightening sound,
The birds and the squirrels take cover and hide,
They shiver and shake while the storm they outride,
But after a night that they spent curled up tight,
They creep out and check in the bright morning light,
To see if their home world is standing there still,
It’s been slightly changed, but survive it they will.
Orson, the Oregon junco, has found a sunny spot to rest.
“Ooooh! This is so toasty on my body. The sun has warmed the railing. It feels glorious after so much cold wind.”
“Ahh … this is SO nice! I’ll get some of that warmth on my throat too. Oh, my goodness, that is so wonderful.”
“Oops! Excuse me. Nature calls. I’m trying to be modest, turning my back, but why do I have the feeling I’m on Candid Camera?”
“Hmm … the evidence … it’s still there. What to do? What to do? Oh, no! I’m such a birdbrain.”
“I just can’t have anyone pointing an accusing feather, saying it was me. They’ll probably put it on Twitter. Still, I needn’t worry. If they put anything on Twitter, the birds would be canceled for expressing an unpopular opinion. Meanwhile, only one thing to do and that’s flee the scene of the crime.”
The evidence was left behind, but before a half hour passed by, the heavens opened up and the whole deck was full of evidence. Well … it looked like more evidence.
Loads of evidence covered the railing as a freak hailstorm blew in and then out again as quickly as it had come. Orson was spared many accusations, and he felt a lot lighter.
So much fuss over a little fish.
But it is a very popular fish, especially on the tables of the UK and Germany. You can have it smoked or fried, or fried and served in tomato sauce, or pickled and rolled up into Rollmops. If you like fish, you probably love herring.
My mother told me that back in the days before WWII, a fishmonger was selling herring in the street, and he called out to the customers, “Herring! Herring! So fett wie der Goering.” (“Herring! Herring! As fat as Goering” [the commander-in-chief of the Nazi air force]). Since Goering’s name rhymed with the name of the fish, it caused a chuckle among the townspeople who came out of their houses to buy his fish.
But the Nazi bigwigs didn’t like to be made fun of so they arrested the fishmonger and put him in jail for two weeks.
When he was released, the fishmonger went back out onto the streets to sell his herring, calling out, “Herring! Herring! … As fat as … they were two weeks ago.”
*****
Right now the local herring fishery is winding up and the cleanup begins.
Here is a photo of the beach area below our house where you can see the herring spawn turning the water close to shore a turquoise blue colour.
The seiners have caught their allowed quotas of herring and most have gone home. There is still a lot of herring spawn (eggs) in the water, a lot of it stuck to seaweed and being washed up on the beach.
This is what the seagulls gorge themselves on.
The one on the bottom left has “egg on his face” but doesn’t seem to mind it. See the herring roe sitting on his beak?
*****
In my other blog, you might be interested in a post about what turns readers off.
https://annelisplace.wordpress.com/2021/03/20/what-turns-readers-off/
The seiners wait in the harbour for the signal that the herring are fat enough, with a high enough roe count, to allow the roe herring fishery to proceed.
Rafts of sea lions are waiting too. They will take advantage of the herring being “rounded up” in the purse seines of the big boats. Many herring “escape,” right into the waiting jaws of these huge mammals.
Some of them like the fishy smell coming from small power boats and are trying to investigate up close.
Seagulls wheel around the seiners trying to grab any herring that swims too close to the surface.
This immature eagle is about to find out that the beach will be full of bounty as roe and herring and bycatch float ashore. These foods provide much-needed calories for the eagles especially at their nesting time, which happens very soon after the herring fishery. Healthy eagles will have healthy chicks.
And let’s not forget that as much as we scoff at seagulls and their shrieking habits, they are the janitors of the beaches, cleaning up every bit of mess.
Once the carnage has been cleaned up, the animals have to scrounge what food they can until next year’s feast.
On February 2, Punxsutawney Phil, the official groundhog weather forecaster, dashed back into his burrow because he saw his shadow, and thus predicted six more weeks of winter.
“Ugh! You’ve got to be kidding me,” says the Steller’s jay. “Six more WEEEEEEKS!”
I felt the same way, and have been waiting (im)patiently for spring to come, and today I realized that six weeks must soon be up.
March 16 should be the last groundhog-predicted day of winter. So I expect spring to happen the next day.
One more week!
I’ll be looking for signs of spring for my next post. Are you finding any where you are?
It’s not a turkey that needs to be carved, but Fletcher the Flicker is getting creative as he dines on a snack of suet at the feeder.
“I’m going to carve you into a little duckling. Who knows? It might improve the flavour.”
“Oops! What was I thinking? I’ve eaten your bill, my little duckling.”
“Hmm! You’ve got a problem there, Fletch.”
“Well don’t just sit there and criticize, Orson. Do you have any bright ideas?”
“I guess not. Unless he’s gone to think about it….”
“Well, Fletch, I … er … let’s see …. For one thing, his bum’s too fat.”
Fletcher closes his eyes and counts to ten. “Lord give me strength.”
But then Orson has an idea.
“You pick away under his chin – that will help – and I’ll pick away at his fat tush. And by the way, it’s great working with you, Fletch. That snarky starling is not nearly as nice as you are.”
“I’m keeping my distance when he’s around. Get a load of that spearing beak and those mean, beady eyes. Not to mention that grabbing set of claws he’s got. No, Sir! I’m not doing anything to draw attention to myself. No sneaking a bite while he’s there.”
Fletcher carves a duck of suet, Asks his friend for help to do it. Orson's happy to oblige him Least he knows he won't get bludgeoned. Snarky starling, meanest birdy, Doesn't share, and oft plays dirty. Orson spends his time with Fletcher, Both are happy, yep, you betcha.
“Eh? Orson? What’s that you said?” That Oregon junco knows everything that’s going on around here.
It's a chilly wind today, My fur coat is on to stay, I'm so happy to be warm, With the temps below the norm.
“If you’d pay attention, Lincoln, you’d know there’s been a big change in the weather.” Him and his big fur coat. He probably hasn’t even noticed. But just look at Emma. She’s still trying to figure it out too.
Look now, Lincoln! See the ground, See the flakes fall all around? Food will be more precious though, Covered as it is with snow.
“Sheesh! This is just like in the movies where Bambi says, ‘Mother, what’s all that white stuff?’ and she says, with her soft, stunned voice, like some naive housewife out of a 50s sitcom, ‘Why … it’s snow!'”
Emma snarfs in deep, long sniffs, White stuff gives off special whiffs, Did a raccoon pass by here? Did a rabbit scratch his ear? Licking, tasting flakes of snow. Tries to bite it, where'd it go? Funny flakes of wetness fall, On her head and over all. Emma gives her coat a shake, Leaving just one lonely flake, Sitting on her pointy nose, Then into the house she goes.
I wonder if there’s a restaurant up there. They dropped some food here on the floor, but maybe there’s fresher stuff up top.
Ah … this is more like it. A real borgasschmord of meaty worms and grains. Looks like a zinnia dropped some seeds here, and a bunch of other weedy things left promises of more weeds in the spring. I could help Anneli out by eating the weed seeds. But it might be easier to go dine at The Suet Block today.
Uh-oh! Looks like Mr. Darling Starling is already tucking in.
“Hey, Star! Don’t you know Anneli doesn’t want you here?”
“And why might that be, you little piece of Junc-o?”
“Well … she says you gobble too much food and don’t share, and anyway, she doesn’t like feeding baby killers. You know you’re a nest robber.”
“Harrumpf! Watch it, Twirp, or I’ll peck your eye out. And anyway, you’re not social distancing.”
“OMG! OMG!” said Harry, the hairy woodpecker. “I’d like to go down there, but – sheesh! That starling is star-k raving mad! … and-and-and he’s m-m-mean too.”
“I’m being good, Mr. Starling. See? I’ll keep my distance. I’ll just sit here and watch until you’re done.”
“Well, Twirp, you should have brought a chair. I’m gonna be a while.”
“Heh, heh, heh. Here comes Anneli. Look at that coward fly. He’s a “star” at running away. Coward! Heh-heh-heh. Wish Anneli would sit out here in the rain with us … sigh….”
wordsfromanneli 