Blog: Hideaway Pond–7-22-21– hideawaypond.com
Rain. A virtual Bangladeshi monsoon assaulted the Hideaway during much of early July. A shy sun occasionally peaked its timorous head from behind the clouds. Barely long enough to reduce the deluge to a fading golden dapple before a spectrum of dark grays returned. The storm gods were pissed. They amped up their dangerous lightning and banged on their angry tympanies. Day and night.
But peace and tranquility have finally returned. A quiet sun now warms Hideaway Pond. Sadly, its rays are filtered through smoke blown cross-country from drought driven fires that consume the western landscape. Global warming. Mankind’s gift to the planet.
Speaking of that, critter action has been low during the month of July. Sows, as mom bears are inelegantly called, are apparently keeping their furry little charges close to home. Deadbeat boars are already on the roam. We’ll see more bear action as summer wanes. Too quickly, I fear.
Three does, a mother and two of last year’s fawns show up like clockwork every evening. They graze on the strip of grass that lies between the edge of the pond and the ledge as I write this. Their red coats glow in the semi-darkness.
We were jolted from our breakfast a couple of weeks ago when an eagle took flight about 30 ft from behind the porch. It had apparently dined on some small critter, a field mouse or chipmunk, for its own breakfast. Critterdom is a self service world. And size matters.
A heron visits us on an almost daily basis. It often flies in and flairs out directly above the house. Like living under the final approach at JFK. Well, sorta. It will take its fill, become airborne and set its compass for home. No doubt dropping a small gratuity into the pond as it leaves.
And speaking of fish, the dragon flies are back. They torture the bass with their sadistic little game of death daring dives barely out of snapping range. The carp observe all of this with sanguine indifference.
A sad conclusion to the story of our little Carolina wren. She returned this year to build another nest in one of our hanging begonia pots. Our having not seen her for several days, Shari climbed up to check the nest. There were three small eggs, one of them broken. They had obviously been abandoned for days. We assume that she was taken by a predator. For all of her beauty, Mother Nature has her rules. C’est la guerre.
We continue to hear the night chorus of coyotes in the nearby woods. And at least two barred owls get into a nightly argument as darkness falls. I’ve stolen some of their voices and placed them below.
A full “thunder moon” sails over the Catskills tonight. So named by the Western Abernaki Algonquians because of the prevalence of thunder storms at this time of year. Like the sun, it will shed its light through the blood red filter of western fires. Somewhere an Algonquian weeps.