A Flash of Red

Surprise awaited me this morning as I strode confidently across the drying lawn to the garden shed.

A flash of red against the shaded trunk of the old pear tree stopped me as my hand reached for the shed door. 
Looking slowly to the left, I saw 
a small bird, black wings, white breasted, it's head capped in red working steadily, focused and determined, at the bark of the scrabbled, mossy tree trunk of the generous old tree.

Over the last two years, 

the city’s natural world has unfolded to me.

Crows and gulls have croaked and scree'd,

robins and wrens have perched on the fence 

or pulled worms from the lawn, 

flitting and chirping all the while.

This year, squirrels busily stored nuts 

gathered from the grand old walnut tree,

scampering around the perimeter of the six foot fence, 
carrying one nut at a time to their winter stash.

This red headed bird was new to the yard.

Hushed and moving slowly, I backed away.

My camera was in the house.

On this fine autumn Sunday, neighbours were cutting grass with growling mowers, buzzing electric saws cut wood for a weekend’s project. Three times, my camera clicked and flashed.

The little bird, a young woodpecker, ignored us all,

stripped a small piece of bark from the old pear tree

and carried on pecking bugs and crawlies from under the bark,

then disappeared up the tree for more brunch.

“Nature will bear the closest inspection.  She invites us to lay our eye 
level with her smallest leaf, and take an insect view of it’s plain.”  
~ Henry David Thoreau