In the winter, visitors slow to a crawl. Far less activity when the weather turns cold. Except for the errant robin which, according to our Aunt Bea, heads for the deep woods, visible occasionally announcing that not everyone who can goes south.
But, in spring, it's a different story around here. Things are hopping right now. This place bubbles over with all sorts of new faces, especially of the winged variety.
It's fun to hear all the great tunes and see old friends. We hear the coo-cooing of the mourning doves. The thwack, thwack, thwack of the pileated woodpecker, which leaves chunks of telephone poles on our driveway. The cardinal's chirp. The chickadee's tweet. All sorts of fun sounds, including the yelling crows who get very irritated at daybreak if they don't find a treat at the edge of the woods behind the recycling container. They all but ring the doorbell.
But sometimes, around “spring peepers” season, there arrives an unusual traveler at pond's edge. This bird, which posed nicely for me, grooming itself and yawning, seems to notice the peeps too. In fact, it may be why he, or she, stops over.
If my very amateur bird watching encyclopedic research is accurate, what we have here is a “small heron,” I think. Surely there is someone out there in Register Land who can confirm or deny my observation.
It does seem like a rather peculiar name. One doesn't generally say --- small horse, or small alligator. I mean, it may be a smaller version of something, but shouldn't it have a more prestigious name, like, the miniature blue crested North American peeper snare? Really. Let's make a fuss. Celebrate its uniqueness.
Where's the fanfare? Let's give it up for the “small heron.”
It's just not right.