Fragments From Floyd

Twice yesterday, I suffered the terrible occupational hazard of photographer's/birdwatcher's neck. First it was a pileated woodpecker I stalked until I could see his silhouette against the drizzly sky. His rattatatting set the standing stump of a white pine swaying with each hammer. Shards of old bark and frass fell noisily through the understory. I watched him selectively and deftly pick away the leaves of a Virginia Creeper that were obstructing his work on the old stump. But after standing stark still for ten minutes with my neck flexed as if I were looking at the ceiling overhead, I never got the picture.

Then, just before sunset, as I usually do, I puttered around in the garden. And as they usually do, the cedar waxwings congregated in the old walnut by the barn, using its dying branchtips to launch their frenzied looping forays out for insects, and oft times, I'm convinced, merely to show their siblings a new aerial acrobatic stunt they've mastered. Since they were not more than 20 feet overhead at times as I stood there in the bean rows with my hoe, and since there was nice orangy indirect lighting, I decided I'd see if I could capture a cedar waxwing in motion. I couldn't. And trying to keep the lens centered on these speedy aerialists as they zoom directly overhead is a great way to end up arse-over-teakettle in the creek. So, if I decide I must try this again, I will spread an old sleeping bag under the tree (but out of the birdpoop zone) and see if this supine orientation for birds-in-flight photography is any easier on the bones.