We took down a large oak tree last Thursday in our yard. It was 50 feet high, growing within inches of our house, entangled with gnarled grape vines. For many years it has stood bravely defending itself against hurricanes and tornadoes in this South. This part of the country has born far more than its share of destruction the last few years, and we have been sustained by a wing and fervent prayer for peace and calm.

I have thought about cutting the tree down for years, but I also felt it would be devastating to the wildlife who have called it home for the last 20 + years. Birds-- house wrens, chickadees, cardinals— have found this to be an ideal spot to shelter, as well as a pleasant and relatively safe environment to raise their young ones. I have watched from the kitchen window a family of doves raising their babies from eggs in the nest to taking flight. From this window, I have observed birds come and go, some here to stay, others just passing through.

Winter, when nesting was not in progress, would seem the best time to effect the change, though some birds tend to hang out in this abode all year round. While rummaging through these thoughts, it suddenly becomes spring, then summer.  Well, I can’t do it now, I would tell myself.

Now it is April…

In the past couple of years, I’ve been watching the trees growing taller in our yard, eyeing distances as they merged closer and closer to the house, blocking the light. They have continually weathered the storms, these trees miraculously bending over far more than what we would think capable without breaking. I have witnessed the immense devastation in the aftermath of downed trees and severe damage to homes and other buildings in the storm’s path, enduring the twisting strength of tornadoes passing nearby, saving us, yet implementing destruction a mile away, on a whim.

This is why, when the “tree terminator” pulled into our yard asking if we needed any tree work, the oak had to go, along with 3 other ones, dangerously tall and close to the house. However inconvenient and worrisome the location of this particular tree-- this oak-- its loss disturbs me. I am not the only one, apparently. It also disturbed a few cardinals who are still assessing the damage to their longtime home and environment. They have not been quiet about their feelings. Birds, in general, are chattering all over about the big event, with various ones flying through and checking out what happened.

So, I stood out in the yard and apologized. I apologized for interrupting their plans, for any damage we may have caused them, and expressed my sorrow for any possible loss of life.

I think, overall, there is minimal damage, if any, to our wildlife survival. The birds are still here though a bit vocal about the inconvenience. They are going to be ok. The cardinals will adjust. I will restructure the grape vine for their use and remember to buy some bird food.  It is simply that we had to force a significant change, and we know that any change is going to challenge someone in the dynamic of things.

As it is with the coronavirus…
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 Light now enters through the windows once again. A hummingbird showed up this morning at the feeder. And we will rebuild and restore our lives, eventually.  And time moves on…

The Tamron lens is heavy, but positioning it on the car window, it is aimed steadily at the subject, still. The kingfisher is not fooled. His eyes are sharp and efficient--too aware. He is my challenge, but to him, I am another factor to figure in.

I stop the car as he watches, he, calculating the distance between us and the length of time before the trout returns to the water below. Kingfisher may fly, but he doesn’t.  Knowing he has the advantage, he lingers.  There is a shift in movement, either he or I. I know it is a risk, but I must adjust the direction of the lens ever so slightly to capture him.  

As I suspected, that movement sends Kingfisher off across the water, propelling himself effortlessly, vertically, up to the sky, then sailing through the air in unregimented directions, this crazed bird with a maniacal laugh. He is as fearless as the pilot in a crop duster aiming toward the earth below, plunging to his death, yet effecting a save at the last moment, upward.
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Kingfisher chooses a site further away to wait… to target his fish.  On his next descent, he does not abandon the mission, instead makes a full commitment into the water, a skilled diver focused on the prize below. He ascends victorious. Now!

The button does not click… My camera refuses to capture him. He disappears with only the memory in my mind.
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Until next time, Kingfisher.