The sun also sets

A chickadee catches a drink from a melting icicle while 
two drops get away from him.

Eighty degrees in the sun on the deck. Comfortable chair, boots up on the generator box, five feet from the feeder. A mediocre scotch in hand with a tight-fisted chunk of snow to cool and temper it mixed with a few birch chatains to give it that woody flavor.

Action is brisk at the Chickadee Singles Bar as we all wait for the grosbeacks to come by for their afternoon set. One even landed on my boot.
You know, I write a lot about the birds, but I am not a real birder. I mean if somebody says there is a tufted titmouse in the neighborhood, I am not going to grab my binoculars and camera and race out the door. I like the ones who come to me, the ones I feed, and the few individuals I recognize as I watch them and try to decipher what their behavior means. Think about this. It is so quiet in the woods I can hear their wingbeats as they flutter about and the clicking of their feet as they land on the plastic feeder rim.

They have been checking the ventilation holes under the eaves, I think for nesting spots and it makes me glad I took the time to put screening over them when I built years ago. It's not that I wouldn't love to entertain a nesting pair or two, but I would rather not have them tearing into my insulation. The other day I watched one explore the whole front of the house, even once clinging to the siding. How I wished I had had a camera when it perched on the fin of the killer whale decoration on the door.

A couple of days later, a good one, almost 80 degrees again.

So I watch them now, the day's work done, a big chunk of the wiring project completed, even a light hanging over the kitchen, and firewood packed away. I split and stacked three sledfuls and brought out one for the next 24 hours. And, satisfied, scotch in hand, I can relax and enjoy the sun while it lasts.

I had an interesting revelation today. Someone came out to that neighboring cabin I can see these days. Whoever it was didn't stay the night and I got the idea he was just checking on it. The same thing happened last weekend.

I got to wondering why, and if anything were missing would I be the chief suspect. Giving it some thought, I realized there is probably nothing in that cabin I would want. I did a mental inventory of this place and realized I really have everything I could possibly want. Short of a hot woman or a couple of sitcom DVDs, nothing. I have it all. How many people can say that? If this keeps up I might need another bottle of scotch, though, but no need to break into someone's cabin on the off chance I might find one. I can afford a trip out and a good one if need be.

My friend Gretchen Small says the chickadee drinking

in the photo above inspired her to paint this picture of a

Swainson's thrush.

The sun is heading into the trees now, so it might be time for a little dinner and a movie. I am thinking Moulin Rouge, the new one with Ewan MacGregor and Nicole Kidman. Did I ever write about the night I chatted with her for a few minutes online, just a couple of days before her marriage to Keith Urban? Honest, I did. Jokingly I told her I had this great script with a part prefect for her. I could almost hear her mind snap shut. I told her I was only kidding, but she only came back a little way.

Well with dinner and a movie in the near future, I am guessing the following applies.

With two more weeks to go, I think I am going to have to go out for another bottle of scotch. This one lasted 30 years. I might as well pay the money for a good one for the next 30.