Forgive the crappy photo, but I didn’t have much time to catch Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird checking out the real estate. I was getting nervous since most mornings last week I’d seen the onerous starlings camped out on top of the bluebird house while the pair of bluebirds watched from the nearby birch. A sad sight indeed.

But this is a good development! I saw both the male and female go in the box, so maybe they’ve got homemaking on their minds?

I was outside in today’s 14-degree morning knocking ice out of the guinea waterer when I heard a sharp, distinct call. One I hadn’t heard yet around here, at least not so close. I scanned the woodline and who should be sitting in the giant oak but this big guy.

A quick visit to the excellent Cornell Ornithology Lab’s beautifully designed Web site led me to believe that this morning visitor is a red-shouldered hawk. Correct me if I’m wrong! And he was huge. Here he is in the giant oak, and though the tree is humongous, you can tell this is not an insignificantly sized bird.

Though it’s definitely cool that he chose my oak for his sunbath, I can’t help but wonder what he could do to a guinea. Unlike during the kestrel attack of last summer, I think this bird may be large enough to make off with a guinea or at least put some serious hurt on the poor dear.

And it turns out he wasn’t the only one enjoying the sun on this very chilly morn. Skittish Neighbor Cat was camped in the meadow, and darted away into the woods right after this shot. It’s a jungle out here.

More winter color for you.

I was talking with a friend the other day about the seasons when I realized I am craving color in the landscape. As much as I have grown to love the muted palette of winter with its shadowy violets and cool bark tones, what I am missing is bright. Like hot-pink bougainvillea blossom bright. Or golden zinnia or tomato red. As I thought more about this, and looked around outside, I realized that in the absence of summer flowers, jewel green grass and warm blue skies, the only really brightly colored natural things in winter are the birds:

Of course birds are here year-round, but in the winter, against a canvas of taupe and grey, they are the quite truly the brightest spots in my natural world.

After a year of playing landlord to generations of starlings, I’ve finally given them their notice. The birds took up residence among the rafters of the unfinished back porch, and though I love birds these particular birds are no friends of mine. Because they leave the porch looking like this:

And, when their nests are full of tasty eggs, they attract gigantic black snakes that try to crawl up my house and scare me to death.

I thought the starling residence was going to be seasonal in that they’d make their nests, raise their young and leave. But that didn’t turn out to be the case as even in the dead of winter they are having a racaus party on my back porch and trashing it in the process. Time for an intervention.

I got some of the deer netting I’d used around my young trees, trimmed it to size, climbed on a ladder and began the long process of stapling it to the ceiling and rafters in an attempt to seal out the birds. Midway through I went into the well house to grab a wad of old netting I’d stashed there after removing it from some trees. It wasn’t until I was back on the porch that I noticed a suspiciously familiar dark shadow deep in the black netting.

Last summer I had a rangy stray cat appear around my well house. He was wearing a collar, but wouldn’t let me get close to him. Even though I put out food, he stayed skittish and one day disappeared. Shortly thereafter I noticed a smell of rotten flesh in the well house. I figured the cat had climbed into the roof of the structure, got hung up on his collar, and died. It stunk to high heaven, and I fully expected to find a feline skeleton if I ever dismantled the well house. After a few months the smell abated and I figured whatever it was had decomposed.

But, after today’s discovery I am revising my story to say that the source of the stink was this black snake who had the bad luck to twist his way deep into the pile of netting and die. It was a sad discovery, but part of me is relieved to have figured out the mystery.

I cut away the part of the netting that wasn’t covered in dessicated rotten snake guts and with it finished finished sealing off the starling apartments.

I don’t love this time of year, when the drive home from work in the dark is a twelve mile deer slalom with a pitch-black house at the finish line. When the moon is hiding, it’s so dark out here that I need a flashlight to find the front door. I walk unsteady up the driveway under the kind of disorienting black sky that opens wide above and makes me feel flipped upside down.

But the reward, once I am safely inside with lights a-blazing, is seeing my house in an entirely new (lack of) light. It’s so beautiful to me that I made pictures while a family of coyotes sang against the mountain.

Through my camera, I caught a glimpse of the soul of this house. Despite the darkness, it was shining.

You knew it was coming. I knew it was coming.

Friday evening I came home from work and went to feed the guineas. The wind was blowing like crazy, it was spitting rain and cold, and I was barely walking from the second round of a virus that had me down for the past two weeks.

As I filled the guinea water, the door to their house blew open and two birds jumped out, a pearl and a lavender, no doubt freaked by the gale gusting around them. I spent most of the evening chasing them through the fields, trying to get them back home. I tracked them with a flashlight through the tall, uncut pastures as they hunkered down in the grass. At one point I was close enough to grab one, but she erupted under my fingers in a whirl of muscle and beating wings, leaving me in a swirl of feathers.

I gave up, went inside, and posted the 14 remaining birds on CraigsList.

At 10:30 that night I was reading in bed and I heard the cries right under my bedroom window. A few shouts and then quiet. I went to sleep.

Around daybreak I was awoken by more guinea cries. There goes the second one, I thought, and when a quick trip outside to investigate turned up no body, I returned to bed.

When I finally got up for good, I found the front yard littered with pearl guinea feathers. In several distinct patches, which must have been where each attack took place before the bird was finally caught. There was no trace of the lavender’s remains. There was also no trace of my CraigsList post, which appeared to have been ghosted and never showed up. Perhaps it was because I offered the birds for “farm or table?”

I went about my day, out for errands, and when I returned in the afternoon what should I see but the lavender hen walking right outside the guinea coop. She was unscathed, and jumped right in when I opened the door. What a story she had to tell, of her night outside while her mate was murdered! I was amazed that she was alive.

Things improved on Sunday, when the 15 remaining birds spent more than nine hours outside, wallowing in dust holes, sticking close to the house and generally appearing to enjoy themselves. Around dusk I guided them back to their coop and all jumped right in but for one, who spent ten minutes frantically circling the coop before figuring his way in. I shut the door, and bid them all sweet dreams.

Of all the bird nests I’ve found, this is the first to contain mummified occupants. Two little babies, broken necks.

Friday night I watched the most delightful movie I’ve seen all year, Fantastic Mr. Fox. I loved it, but must admit I’ll take a suave, animated George Clooney-voiced fox over the real one that showed up on the farm yesterday.

I let the birds out around 2:30 in the afternoon, and watched them while I puttered about the house. I sat at my desk, working on the computer while they hung out at the line of brush, cedar trees and old fence that divides my property from my neighbor’s.

I glanced up from my work around 4:00 to see what looked like a small red dog weaving and ducking among the flock, which was roiled up in a fluff of feathers and flying birds and alarm calls. What’s this?! I didn’t order a border collie!

I jumped out of my chair and onto the front porch, yelling the entire time without care for how my neighbors must have perceived this raving lunatic, and I pulled on my boots. Then I lit out into the fracas, screaming as I went, trying to chase off Mr. Fox. I was successful, and managed to fight  him off into the woods behind my house—without a guinea clenched in his jaws.

I hung around the guineas for a while as they calmed down. About six—way too few in my opinion—had actually done the right thing and flown into the trees. Eventually they came down,  inelegantly tumbling head over talons through the branches and landing hard. While we were all catching our breath, I heard movement in the woods and turned to look just as a bushy fox tail flew over a fallen tree and out of sight. For now.

The guineas didn’t manage to put themselves to bed as early as they had the night before, and wary from the fox attack I went out as it was getting dark around seven and was able to herd them into the coop. So we end another weekend with 16 guineas, about a half a dozen new tick bites (including one in my bellybutton, indignity of indignities), and one wary farmer who’s now researching livestock guard dogs.

I witnessed my first attack on the guinea flock today. It came from the sky.

I let the birds out around nine this morning, and they spent all day wandering the yard, being very good about staying away from the road and sticking close to the coop, house and garage. They were actually right in front of their coop when I stepped onto the front porch and saw a small bird hovering among the guineas. They were wildly sounding the alarm, and the attacker wasn’t exactly being subtle with his high klee klee klee call. As annoying as it is to think something was after my birds, I have to give this little guy props for trying. After failing to cart off a bird that was at least twice as big as he was, he flew to a tall tree at the corner of the property to collect his dignity. And then he took off, presumably to pick on somebody his own size.

I broke out my bird book and figured out that I’d been visited by a kestrel, a small hawk about the size of a jay. I think he was one of a pair, as during this whole encounter I heard another bird flying over the woods making the same call.

The rest of the day passed without incident, though I was nervous about how I’d get the birds back in the coop at nightfall. After one weekend of allowing me to herd them into their coop, last weekend the birds decided to rebel on the very afternoon I needed to put them away and drive out of town for an overnight trip. They started splitting into two groups as I got them close to the coop door. As just one person, it was impossible for me to play defense. Thank goodness my neighbor noticed my frantic jogging about the back pasture and rode to my rescue on his mountain bike. With his presence, the flock fell in line and everyone jumped right in the coop.

So I was hoping I wouldn’t have a repeat of that situation. I figured I’d leave the birds out all day and then see if they’d be smart enough to put themselves to bed at dusk. And guess what? Almost as soon as the sun dropped behind the big oak at the woodline, throwing the farm into shadow at about half past six, I looked out the window and saw half the birds in the coop. The rest were milling around, and I went out to “assist,” which really just made them anxious. So I walked away, and not a minute later returned to find that they’d all hopped in the coop. I scurried over and shut up their door, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over me that I didn’t have to track down errant birds in the dark. Now if I can just keep up this trend of them not getting eaten, staying off the road, and putting themselves to bed, I will be a very happy guinea farmer!