There are fewer cranes as they are starting to head north.
pTerodactyl at dusk.
More hangers-on
Daddy Owl is not perching for long at dusk. He is flying off in search of food for Mama Owl.
The pTerodactyl looking beautifully blue-gray in the twilight.
Are you there in the darkness Mama Owl?
Yes, she is there sitting on her eggs.
Spunk: “It looks like Beaker got a new humidifier.”
Beaker: “I’m looking through it all stripely.”
Gwendolyn: “Quick change Spunk! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Beaker: “Thanks for the new humidifier! I can breathe again.”
Spunk: “How did you do that you little brat?” Gwendolyn: “Ah ah ah ah…”
Gwendolyn: “Magic!”
Spunk: “I look great reflecting on the phone.” Gwendolyn: “I’m outta here.”
Beaker’s old humidifier started leaking, so I got him a new one. No sooner had I taken the humidifier out of the box, than Spunk jumped in it followed by Gwendolyn. Beaker gets his own private humidifier to help him breathe better. It’s so dry here that Beaker wheezes without the humidifier.
Every morning during the week I park my car in the same spot as I am usually first to arrive in the parking lot. Recently, when I get out of the car, pigeons fly in and gather around me. Last week three or four would gather, but this morning 14 pigeons flew in and stood in front of me. I assume they are expecting a handout like most people I encounter early in the morning downtown. Since I had nothing to offer them other than a few words of encouragement, like Saint Frances of Assisi, I gave them a short sermon. Then I gathered my things out of the trunk of my car and headed to the office.
Fourteen pigeons hoping for a handout got a short sermon instead.
“Where’s my blueberry buttermilk pancake PapaRATzo?”
Breaker, our 29-year-old Gold Cap Conure, goes nuts over blueberry buttermilk pancakes. He also loves Susan’s blueberry pound cake. I’m thinking that Beaker has genetic memory of his feathered forefathers going out to treetop IHOPs for Sunday breakfast or Sunday Brunch where they enjoyed blueberry buttermilk pancakes. Beaker also loves coffee, donuts, hamburgers, French fries, pizza, huevos rancheros, and similar fare, all of which he rarely gets. But still, the fact that he likes those various types of foods so much leads me to believe he has a genetic memory of a whole feathered fast food industry high in the tops of rainforest canopies.
Beaker’s pancake is the little one on the lower left side of the griddle.
“I’m still waiting!”
“About time you got my order off the griddle.”
“Yum!”
“Yum! Yum!”
“Yum! Yum! Yum! Yum!”
It’s been a few years since Laurie made blueberry buttermilk pancakes. Beaker thoroughly enjoyed his pancake as I did mine. The pancakes were delicious.
Glenda and Gwendolyn were not impressed with blueberry buttermilk pancakes. They were more interested in lying around and looking cute.
Whirlybird with a game warden looking for a coyote that attacked a runner.
Daddy Owl: “¡No me gustan los whirlybirds! ¡A mí tampoco me gustan los coyotes!“
Flicker: “Whirlybird? Is that what that thing is called?”
Mama Owl: “Stupid coyotes! Stupid whirlybird!”
I thought the doves flew up out of the cottonwood because of the helicopter.
But a second look revealed a Cooper’s Hawk had flown up in the tree where the doves were perched.
“It’s a bird! It’s a plane! IT’S a WHIRLYBIRD! Stupid coyotes!”
Blow up of Mr. Cooper.
Whirlybird hovering before flying south. A crane flying north.
Mr. Cooper flew north to another tree.
Mama Owl: “That’s better now that the whirlybird has flown south!”
Clouds at dawn looking north.
Daddy Owl: “Mucho mejor sin el whirlybird.”
Like a sunset at sunrise looking southwest.
Mama Owl poked her ear tufts up.
I didn’t see Daddy Owl at all yesterday, and I still couldn’t see Mama Owl in the hole in the tree, but tonight, Mama Owl poked her head up just enough for me to see her ear tufts and the top of her head. We should be seeing owlets in about six weeks.
Daddy Owl looking pensive before he flew off to find a meal for Mama Owl.
Daddy owl was by himself this morning.
When I went out this evening, Daddy Owl was still alone. I heard another owl hoot not too far away, but I could not see it. Daddy owl hooted back and then flew to a tree a few hundred feet or so from where he was perched. He answered another hoot and flew over to the hole in the tree where the nest has been. He looked down into the hole hooted, looked at me, looked back into the hole, looked up behind him, and then flew off. I assume Mama Owl has started sitting on her nest in the tree, but if she is in the hole, she is laying low so I couldn’t see her.
He was still by himself this evening answering hoots.
The hole where the nest is looked empty.
After answering hoots, he flew to a tree a little south of where Mama Owl has nested in the past.
He flew over to where Mama Owl nests, looked into the hole, and hooted.
Looked at the paparazzo.
Looked in the hole again.
Checked out what was behind him before he flew off.
Clouds blowing over the Sandias before sunset.
The sun’s last attempt to shine through the clouds before slipping below the horizon.
Mama Owl and Daddy Owl looking gray back to their favorite spot.
“I’m Silver, not Gray” You’re really quite gray Silver.
Black and white of snow under dawn’s dark light turns to snow black and white under a dark street light.
Cranes fly into darkness in the sun’s waning light.
Clouds break up over the Rio Grande and the snow-covered Sandias.
Mama Owl and Daddy Owl perched in a different tree.
Crows fly in the final light of dusk.
The pTerodactyl reflects in the darkness.
Off Center & Not Even 