Both a male and female downy visited my feeders during the winter. I could see them come to the feeder together, sometimes even notice them approaching, tree by tree. But the best photo I could manage was the female with one eye peeping around the feeder!
Yesterday, I sat a chair outside with the idea in mind of sketching a tree. A tree will be still, I thought. But it wasn't the tree that was the problem.I did sketch the tree, but not without many interruptions. A brown thrasher landed on its branches and I had to stop and photograph it. I watched the dogwood blossoms blowing in the wind as the cloud movement changed the light. And I had to get up and examine the tiny, newly formed oak leaves in their pastel shades of pink and green.
No sooner had I returned to my sketch when I heard a faint, "tap, tap, tap". I sat very still, uncertain where it was coming from. Again, "tap, tap, tap." Just over my shoulder a few feet away, I found a male downy tapping on the branches of a dogwood.
Now still, he was not. Not for a minute. But he was so close, it made me giggle. And he stayed long enough for me to take several images as he scooted around the limbs, going about his business. Tap, tap, tap.
He even showed me the back of his head.
And if you look closely, in some of the photos you can see the spots on his outer tail feathers. Hairy woodpeckers and downy woodpeckers look very much alike, except the hairy has a larger bill and is slightly larger in size. But according to Peterson's field guide, if you are close enough to see them, the spots on the outer tail feathers also set them apart. The hairy's tail feathers are all white with no spots.
This downy brought me an unexpected treat, something nature never fails to give me. Whenever you can, get outside and just be still for a while. Nature's performers are already gathered on the stage and its a busy time of year.Linked to Bird Photography Weekly #33, at Birdfreak.com, to promote the conservation of our world's birds.
Keeping my chimes busy with their lovely tones.
After a soaking rain yesterday and during the night, the leaves are damp, changed, falling, the air full of movement. And for a short while it pulled me out the door to wander... 
a refreshing experience, whether you are looking at the palette from a distance or viewing the details up close.
But everywhere you look there's 
As a result of that inclination, I fall in love a lot. And I laugh a lot. That's what nature brings into my life. That's what the 
This was one of the most peaceful and intimate moments I've shared with a whooping crane. Many times I was alone with this family for hours on end, with no sound but the deep gutteral brood purr of the parents and the tiny peeping of the chick. The world hushed. Time stood still. And I couldn't have been more mezmerized by what I was seeing.
When you are playing with paint, reacquainting yourself with the pigments and water and how they interact, you are simultaneously looking more deeply into the subjects you paint. The shapes of twigs, the bark of a tree, the angle of limbs, the shadows and the light, how things look far away or close in, and you begin to see everything around you with renewed depth.
This is one of the many benefits of creative practice. It is not about the end result, though the result can be a reminder of who you were in that moment. But more importantly, it’s what is gained, what creating gives you, how it deepens your experience, your seeing and your awareness. 
The Inn on the Santa Fe trail is located in Las Vegas, NM, an area of high desert at the foothills of the Sangre de Criso Mountains. Below, an old wagon on display in the central courtyard at the Inn. 
The Las Vegas National Wildlife Refuge was located near by, a plateau where the Sangre de Cristo mountains meet the Great Plains. Here I saw prairie falcons, red-tailed hawks, ravens, yellow-headed and red-winged blackbirds and western kingbirds along with many prairie grasses and wildflowers. 
Below, a larger view of prairie marsh with bull thistles in the foreground. I must say that the prairie grasses here were unexpectedly beautiful, a sea of blue-green waving pale yellow seed heads in the breeze.
About the size of a June bug, but more like a lady bug in behavior, they came in shades of blue-gray to blue-green and seemed to like people. They frequently landed on shirts and crawled about, before leaving just as softly as they came. Once as I was writing, one crawled across my notebook, halting my pen. This is what reminded me of my cat, the way he nudged his way into my attention by unceremoniously sitting down in the middle of the page. The Rose mountain blue bug--another new acquaintance.
But I have wondered what aspect of this experience made it so difficult to re-engage when I returned home, so much so, that it took a full two weeks before I could feel my feet firmly replanted in everyday life again. I have concluded it was the silence. The silence of the mountain, the silence we observed just after meeting each other--thirteen of us inclusive of teachers, the silence of meditation, of walking, of writing and of listening. 
There was nothing superficial, shallow or pretentious to occupy our minds. Everything around us was real and pure, the air we breathed through our nose, the earth squarely solid beneath our feet, the whisper of the wind in the pines. There was nothing in the way of our opening up.
Without everyday distractions and demands to hold you to the surface, as your pen moves across the paper, what bubbles up is what matters. And what matters comes from a deeper place. And when you go deep you heal and become open to who you are.
As we read what we had written aloud to each other, this bubbling up was honored with silence, reverent, affirming silence. No reassurances bombarded you. There were no attempts to repair your composure or make your voice go away. No criticism or ‘fix it’ responses, no rushing in to make you feel better. There was only listening and silence.
And how does this feel? Uncertain at first. It’s unfamiliar. But what follows is a very settling and strengthened certainty that you have honored who you are. You have listened deeply and heard what you had to say and in the midst of that profound silence, you know that is all that really matters.
In his book, 
If you look closely at the first photo, you will see missing feathers, loose tuffs of down and a scruffy rather than sleek, preened appearance—the rigors of pursuits. He begins his day in the pre-dawn light, emitting territorial chirps and paying several early visits to the feeder. I hope to have more photos soon and maybe a few of others passing through. Its mid-July. Early nesters from more northern states are beginning their migration now. I wonder how my tiny neighbor can be any more vigilant.
Not only did he announce his presence with 
This gray-headed form of the dark eyed junco, with his pretty rufous patch, visited my tent in the Pecos wilderness one early morning, hopping inches from its screened doorway while I wrote.
We miss something, living in houses, that waking intimacy with nature that comes from being
I was introduced to a pair of Townsend’s solitaires in just this way. While I was sipping coffee, they landed in a shrub near me with considerable chatter. The bolder of the two flew down to the ground in front of the pool, paused to look at me, then continued on to enjoy his drink.
and lingered to eat it...
a voice then arose--"you mean you're taking pictures of it, not shooing it away?"
