Behold the Bladderwort – the one carnivorous plant that eludes the public “carnivorous” plant list (if, indeed, there is such a thing).  Venus Flytraps, Pitcher Plants, and Sundews get all the attention but they are relatively hard to find. You need to go to a slightly exotic location, such as a bog, to find them.  The Bladderworts, on the other hand, grow in the unremarkable setting of your local marsh.  While this is not exactly in your backyard, it’s pretty close.

  This thing doesn’t really look predatory.  Without jaws, sticky tendrils or large gaping death pits, they appear harmless enough. As rootless aquatics, they hang about just under the surface and float through life. About the only way to recognize their presence is to spot the conspicuous yellow flower spikes that occasionally peek up among the lily pads.  These too appear very “tame” – looking very much like snap dragons (see above).

  Internally, however, the Bladderwort desires more out of life than simple photosynthesis. Beneath that cool green exterior it craves for things like extra phosphorus and other essential minerals. These are needs that can only be satisfied by capturing and eating animals.

  The secret carnivorous life of the “wort” can only be discovered upon close investigation. Take a look here at a whole plant and you’ll see the mass of greenery at the base of the flower stalk. Closer examination will reveal clusters of berry-like growths peppered among the finely divided leaves. These are the bladders (see here) for which the species gets its name.  Each structure acts as a trap to capture and digest micro-crustaceans and insect larvae. The bladderwort does have death pits -very very tiny death pits, but death pits none-the-less!

  Bladder traps work on the pressure system. Water is pumped out in order to create a vacuum inside the chamber which is sealed with a door flap. Several bristles stick out from the bottom of the door to act as a trigger mechanism.

  When a hapless little beast such as a Water Flea bumbles into one of the hair triggers the trap is sprung. In a literal flash of a second (10-15 thousands of a second to be precise) the bladder door opens in and the critter is sucked in. Before the prey has time to react or even think about escape, the door slams shut.  This entire capture sequence is totally automatic.

  The final stage of the predatory scenario is enacted by digestive enzymes that slowly dissolve the entombed micro-creature.  I wonder if a Water Flea can scream?

  A few days ago, I left you with the thought that the Ruby-throated Hummingbird is a priceless little bird based on its nest-building capabilities alone. I was able to show you a detailed view of a nest to prove my point. Today, I come with a dead bird in hand in order to examine the bird itself (see above).  Sure, I’d rather show you two in a bush but this gives us an opportunity to appreciate some normally un-observed features. The live bird is just too, well, lively!

  The poor little birdlet before you apparently succumbed to starvation and was found lying on the ground.   A Wikimedia article states that “at any given moment (hummingbirds) are only hours away from starving.”  Normally, you can’t believe everything you read on the internet, but this statement merely reflects the fact that hummingbirds have one of the highest metabolism rates in the animal kingdom. Their tiny little hearts can beat 1,260 bpm and they need to eat up to 5 times their body weight each day just to keep up appearances.  Any delay in the daily schedule caused by injury or bad weather can have swift and lethal consequences – as it did for this unfortunate fellow.

  This is a male Ruby-throated Hummer, as indicated by his iridescent throat patch known as a gorget. These namesake feathers don’t express their ruby-ness unless they are illuminated with the proper lighting. Most of the time they appear black or dark brown (see here) but when struck by a shaft of angled sunlight they glow like fiery coals (see here). The back feathers have the same type of structural color except that they are ignited into an emerald flame when given a breath of sunshine. You can see why there is no good way to describe them other than by using gemological terminology.

  Apart from those colors, the long beak also commands our attention. Ruby-throats prefer red tubular flowers (such as the Trumpet Vine) for nectaring and this needlelike bill can penetrate down to the sugary reservoir at the base. They will feed on insects and tree sap during the course of their frenzied feeding, but rely on flower nectar for most of their nutritional needs.

The actual feeding is performed with a long tongue that is plunged into and out of the nectary. During the course of the visit, the bird inevitably gets dusted with pollen from the yellow anthers (see this cut-away view here) and thus performs an un-witting dating service for the Trumpet Vine.

   Perhaps one of the most unappreciated features found on this minuscule fowl are the tiny feet (see here).  These micro appendages are so small that the bird can neither walk nor hop on them (which matches them with elephants in the jumping category). They can manage a sideways twig shuffle and an over-the-wing head scratch, but that’s about it.

  There are hundreds of species of hummingbirds in the New World, but only the Ruby-throat makes it’s living here in the eastern United States. Our local representative is the product of over 30 million years of refinement – a delicate but proven design. Over all that time, the species has never been able to learn the words, but they hum along just fine.

  It took a friend to point it out to me and it took a little bird to let him in on the secret location. I’m talking about a Ruby-throated Hummingbird nest situated high up in the branches of a Sycamore tree. Although the birds themselves are a relatively common summer sight, their nests are not. These structures are near impossible to find because they are cryptically camouflaged and, like their makers, very very small. It takes a bit of serendipity to be at the right place at the right time to see a bird fly up and settle into its nest – that’s about the only way to find one. Fortunately, I was made privy to just such a serendipitous situation.

  It has been over 25 years since I last spotted a Hummingbird nest. That first one was well out on a Beech Tree limb and about 20 feet above the ground.  Save for the tree choice, this current nest is similar in all regards. Since Hummers habitually place their nests on the downward sloping portion of a branch and pick locations that are approachable from beneath, the similarities should come as no surprise. I have to admit, however, that even when this new nest was pointed out to me I had to wait until the resident birdlet returned before I could really see it.

  I was finally able to get a half-decent shot of the female sitting on the tiny cup (see above) and later managed another view (see here).  Unlike the resplendent ruby-throated male, the female of the species has an unadorned white throat. Both sexes have glossy green upper parts, a black face mask, and an overall length of about 3 inches. She was nervous about my presence. I had to limit my photo ops so that I didn’t spook her. After all, this is very late in the season for this bird and she will need every precious moment to get her eggs hatched and fledged before autumn. It takes 16-some days to incubate and another 20-some to rear the fledglings. Everybody will need to migrate south by mid-October at the latest, so time’s a flitt’n.  I should also mention that the males do not participate in the nesting or rearing procedure what-so-ever. If she looks a bit harried, then, it is no wonder.

  The nest of the Ruby-throated Hummingbird is as precise and marvelous as the bird that makes it. Sure, the Bird’s Nest Stadium at the Beijing Olympics may trump this little natural structure in scale, but in terms of precision the two are equal. Take a look here at some detail shots of another Hummingbird nest (see here and here) and you’ll see why they are hard to see and why they should be seen.

  First of all, consider the components. Bud scales and lichens are tied together with spider silk with a fine layer of plant down lining the interior. The thing literally blends into the branch and has the appearance of a glorified knot (not even all that glorified, come to think of it). Structurally, it forms a soft pillow-like platform that is only about ½ inch deep. The top edge actually folds in with a 3/8^th inch lip around the perimeter. As the two young nestlings grow up, the nest is made to expand along with them like a stretch sock (let’s see the Bejing stadium do that!)

  At only 1½ inches in diameter, the size is pretty close to that of a Kennedy Half Dollar.  In fact, it would take about $8.50 worth of “two bits” to stack up to the 1 ¼ inch height.  Further considering that it would take about a penny and a half to equal the average body weight of female ruby throat, it is best to conclude that both the nest and the bird are a truly priceless sight.

  The emergence of the Dog Day Cicadas in late summer is not a subtle affair. The event is heralded from the tree tops with a flurry of dry rattling trumpet blasts issuing from the adult insects. If you are out and about during the day or early evening, you’ll hear the extremely loud calls of these insects and probably not even think about it. They are as much a part of the summer soundscape as the cricket chorus and the distant drone of lawnmowers.  Also known as Dog Day Flies, Harvest Flies, and – incorrectly – as Locusts, the cicadas number among the loudest insects on earth. The Australian version, called the Green Grocer, is purported to be THE loudest insect on earth, as a matter of fact.   Back here in the states, this auditory treat is THE sound of summer (Dog Day Cicada Call).

  Witnessing the soft start to this loud life can be a fascinating part of the visual landscape as well. Annual cicada nymphs emerge out of the ground every year. Unlike their 17 year counterparts, individual D.D.C’s spend 2-7 years mutely tunneling through the dark soil and feeding on root sap. When the Dog Star is high in the summer sky, mature nymphs feel the call to leave the underworld.

  Their impulse is to put some vertical distance between themselves and their childhood home and they climb anywhere from a few inches to 10 feet up the side of a tree. Nymphs are equipped with powerful forelimbs – complete with opposable grips and lamellae (teeth) – in order to scale the bark (see here). Internally they are already changing into flighted beasts and their movements are slow and deliberate due to their loosening skin and shifting musculature.

  At some point, comfortable with their altitude, they hook firmly into the bark substrate and prepare for the inevitable. Body fluids are slowly pumped into the thorax in order to build up pressure in that region. Around about noon, the dramatic shift from nymph to adult begins as the old skin splits under the pressure.  The newly formed cicada pushes out from its old casing and hangs backward at a seemingly uncomfortable angle. New legs are pulled out of the old and the folded wings are pulled out of their pockets.

  While in this precarious state (see here) the insect pauses and begins to un-furl its wings. When viewed head on, the wonderful symmetry of the newly forged creature is evident (see here).  It is pale with tender pink feet and lime green highlights. Fluid is pumped into the wing veins and they expand down and out (see here & here) with the aide of Ma Gravity.  The crumpled neo-wings look somewhat like bubble wrap at this stage (see here).

  It takes a good 15 minutes for the wings to reach their full extension.  For a moment, the past stands with the future as the crisp new adult ventures away from its old casing. It eventually moves over onto the tree bark and climbs higher up the tree to complete the drying process.   

  Within a few short hours, the once tender wing membranes become rigid and clear. Hardening of the exoskeleton darkens the shade to a deep mottled green and the creature is ready to enter into a Dog Day afternoon as a noisy songster.

   Let it here be recorded that at exactly 5:25 am on the morning of August 13, 2008, the temperature in Monroe, MI was exactly 68 degrees F.  This alone is not an earth-shattering revelation, but what if I tell you that this fact was determined with a watch and a pair of eardrums?  Now, perhaps, the thing becomes slightly more than a madman’s rant, yes? Throw in a dead guy and a chorus line of crickets and you have either the makings of a good joke or good science. Fortunately, in this case, we have good science and no bar or saloon references.

  Around about this time of year, a half-inch critter called the Snowy Tree Cricket begins to make itself heard. These pale elongated insects sport a pair of incredibly long antennae and are arboreal in habit. Individually, they have nothing special to offer – at least visually (see above a photo from a Univ. of Florida site).  These un-assuming little beasts spend most of their time secreted away in shrubby cover and only rarely reveal themselves. But, like most members of their type, they are singers that boldly announce themselves through evening song.

  It took a scientist by the name of Amos Dolbear to figure out that the song of the Snowy Tree Cricket (Oecanthus fultoni) contained a secret message.  Actually, I’m not sure that he was a scientist per se, but this is usually what you call dead people who make up formulas. In 1897, Mr. Dolbear came up with a mathematical method of correlating ambient temperature with the call rate of this cricket. While it had long been known that crickets in general “crick” faster on warm nights than cool ones, no one could come up with a simple way to calculate this effect. In other words, someone needed to figure out how a cricket could be used as a very precise thermometer.   

  Dolbear’s formula finally created just such a crickemometer out of the Snowy Tree Cricket. By counting the number of chirps in one minute then subtracting 40 from that number, dividing by 4 and adding 50 you end up with the absolute temperature in degrees Fahrenheit. This whole thing can be further simplified by counting the number of chirps in 15 seconds and adding 40 – in other words: T (temp.) = N (number of chirps per 15 sec.) + 40. Now, that’s do-able.

  The nice thing about Amos’s Tree Crickets is that all the individuals in one area call in unison. They synchronize their chirps so that the overall sound effect is like one call from one giant cricket rather than a hundred different calls from a hundred different individuals like most crickets. Listen carefully to this series of chirps (Snowy Tree Cricket Call) and you’ll note the soft pulsating rhythm of this species as I heard it at 5:25 am.  Start tapping your finger to the beat and count the beats in 15 seconds.  You’ll count about 28 chirps. Just add 40 and you have 68 degrees F.

  All of this cricking is performed by the males.  They rub a 35 tooth file across a rasp located on their inner wings (here’s a male in full performance- another great Univ. of Florida shot).  

  Apart from the mathematical precision of the tune, there is a comforting quality to this soft mantra. You’ve got a few months left to listen to these audible thermometers before they read 32 degrees F. sometime in October (at which point they are dead!).

   The larva of the Achemon Sphinx is a sight to behold. If not exactly a thing of beauty, it is a thing of marvelous translucence. Say what you will, but I think it there is skin deep appeal to the pinkish orange body of this mega-caterpillar – almost as if it is lit from within. When viewed close up (like this view), it looks almost like a pink gummy worm with vanilla highlights. Please note that I am only saying that it has the general appearance of some bizarre candy, not that it actually tastes like one. It would probably taste more like a soy hotdog, come to think of it, since this insect feeds on Grape vines and Virginia Creepers for a living. If I had to guess, I would say it should be placed into a tiny bun before eating. I will leave this train of thought in the realm of guesswork, however, and have no plans to test out my theory either way.

  The Achemon, a member of the sphinx family, lacks the “horn” that usually defines the larvae of this group. Sphinx caterpillars are normally called hornworms (with the tomato hornworm being the most infamous) but we have a hornless hornworm in this case.  As a new hatchling, it once had this nice slender appendage coming off its tiny rear end, but shed it after the first molt. The structure is reduced down to a mere terminal butt button for the rest of larval life.

  This caterpillar does enact a typical sphinx maneuver when handled – or taste tested! When fully stretched out (see here), the creature can be quite slender. Upon touch, it retracts the head capsule back into the first several segments and the body thickens considerably (like the photo above and here). This is the sphinx-like pose that defines the family. If handled roughly, the bug can also land a pretty good bite thanks to a powerful pair of mandibles.

  Achemon, by the way, is the name of a mischievous dwarf of Greek legend. He was one of a pair of siblings that tried to play a trick on Hercules. They were caught and ridiculed by the “big H” who eventually let them go. Later, they tried to put one over on Zeus and were subsequently turned into monkeys. What this has to do with the actual species is beyond me, but it’s a good story anyway.

  During its growing life, the Achemon sphinx is normally dark purplish brown. When they reach full size – about canned wiener size – they stop eating and begin to search out a pupation site. As part of the transformation process, the creature changes color and morphs into a pink gummy worm.  This caterpillar was discovered while in the midst of this final transformative journey.  

  The Good Lord willing, and the Zeus don’t rise, this plump sphinx will pupate in the soil and wait out the winter before emerging as an adult next July. I hear that the adult moths (see here) taste like fried monkeys.

  It is not entirely correct to say that Indigo Buntings really aren’t blue, though this is a favorite trivia fact imparted by naturalists. It is true that their color results from the refraction of sunlight off the micro structure of their feathers and that there are no blue pigments anywhere on this species. In the absence of light, therefore, these Buntings appear nearly black.

  But, considering that these creatures inhabit the sunny edges of woodlots and open brushy fields, there are very few times that you see them without their proper dose of lighting. Indigo Buntings are as true blue as the sky – just add sun to either and voila, you have blueness.

 These birds pull an especially incredible shade of sea blue out of the solar spectrum. Scientifically they called Passerina cyanea which means “true blue sparrow” in Latin. As the photo above shows, the male of the species deserves every bit of that name (see above). The females are brown -true brown- and slightly streaked.  They are the primary caregivers and have no need to be flashy.

  I came upon a pair of these buntings in brushy field the other day (as seen here -the female is on the upper left). They were especially nervous about my presence and were anxiously flitting about the perimeters of a thick cluster of blackberry vines in mid field. Everything about their demeanor indicated that they were protecting a well hidden nest within. The agitated parents were sounding off (indigo_sdr_0008wav) as they continually re-located from stem to stem.

  The couple chose their nest site well, however, and the thicket proved to be an impenetrable barrier for this particular intruder. Buntings build their structures fairly low to the ground and it would have taken a lucky angle to spot it.  I attempted to peer into the shadows, but gave up after a short while – out of respect for parental psyche. 

  This nesting situation was fairly late in the season – these birds normally start breeding in early May. Summer is now getting long in the tooth and the time to rear a successful brood before arrival of the migration season is getting slim.  No doubt this is a second brood for the couple.  It is possible that their brood was destroyed by a predator and they were able to get off one more attempt before the seasonal barn door closed for good.

  My fretting couple went silent as soon as I put some distance between them and me. At the far end of the field, another worry-free male bunting was in full singing mode and I was able to record him (indigo_sdr_0011wav). His distinctive bunting banter consisted of a lilting chorus of “sweet, sweet..chew, chew..sweet, sweet.”  

  Indigo Buntings generally stop talking by mid-August and gradually slip away to the southlands by September’s end. This call, then, could be considered as one of the season’s last. It is an ode to the sun with which they share kinship.

  I’ve been keeping my eye out for an albino deer lately. The ghostly creature has been spotted on a number of occasions but the descriptions have varied from all white to partially white.  To those who have seen it, I tell them to keep a camera handy for the “next time.”  A photo, even a bad one, will go a long way toward solving the mystery.  

  All this leads me to my sighting of a partial albino cowbird the other day. I had my camera ready, but I wasn’t ready and I had to settle for a bad photo as my documentary proof (see above). Allow me to explain myself.

  Earlier in the afternoon, I led a public nature walk to the lotus beds at Lake Erie Metropark. I brought along a pair of waders so that I could wade into the plants and cut a few examples for show and tell.  Unfortunately, my old waders have a pin-hole leak in the left boot which soon let in a refreshing torrent of cold water – immediately soaking my pant leg and sock. 

  I squished my way through the remainder of the program, and the day, before heading home.  As I drove down the road the thought occurred to me that I could take off my wet sock and hang it out of the car window to dry.  As long as I held on tight, the thing would flap around in the wind like a red-neck’s squirrel tail and dry out in no time.

  You might expect me to say that the sock ripped out of my hand at some point and, after turning around to retrieve it, I spotted an albino cowbird standing next to it.  Well, not exactly.  You see, I was flying down the road – left sock in hand and bare footed to match – and something caught my eye.  A white bird flew across the road and landed on a fence to my right. I had just enough time for the sight to register as something unusual before I was able to pull off the road and peer back though the rear window.

  I couldn’t make out what it was, but also couldn’t (or wouldn’t) step out of the car while doing my shoeless Joe Jackson imitation.  The mystery bird flew back across the road before I could get my camera out.  It landed out of sight beyond a big spruce tree in someone’s front yard. I did a 180 and zipped down to where I saw it vanish.  As I turned into what I hoped would be the correct driveway I spotted a small cluster of cowbirds in the grass. Right smack dab in the middle of the group was my white bird. 

  The front door of the house was open and it looked like someone had just parked their truck in the drive. Here I was a stranger with a camera sitting in someone’s driveway.  I expected someone to come walking out at any moment. I should have been able to quickly jump out, take a few quick focused shots, and then take off.  But, no, I was shoeless and would have looked especially odd – even dangerous – had I chosen to get out. I wasn’t ready to explain that I just wanted to take a picture of a white blackbird as the owner’s glance drifted downward to my single bare foot.

  The situation demanded that I take a few quick shots through the windshield before speeding off.  I guess you could call this incident a drive by naturalist shooting. There is a lesson in this affair somewhere, but I’ll leave that deduction to you.

  Now that you know why my picture is so bad (here’s another one) perhaps you can appreciate the subject matter.  At least, in this case, you don’t have to take my word for it. This is a partial albino Brown-headed Cowbird. Such pale creatures, better known as Pie-balds, aren’t nearly as rare as true albinos but are unusual none-the-less. True albinos completely lack the skin pigment known as melanin and are totally white with pink eyes and skin.  Pie-balds are missing this pigment in scattered locations and appear spotty.  Their eyes and skin are mostly dark, or normal, in color.

  Normal male Brown-headed Cowbirds are deep velvety black (see here) while the females are usually an even pale brown hue (see here).  I suspect this individual was a female based on the mellow brown back and inner tail feathers.  

  There is a very good chance that I will not see her again. Nature has a way of weeding out such odd balls. Her coloration will catch the eyes of predators just as it caught mine. Should she survive, however, there is a slim chance that her offspring will express the same sort of partial albinism. The albino trait is recessive, but it does rear up in random generations over time.

  I will make sure that my next pie-bald sighting will be under better circumstances and that I will get you a better shot.

  There is little question that the Monarch Butterfly is the royalty of Milkweed Manor. Nearly every discussion of the Milkweed gets around to mentioning this noble butterfly and its lifecycle link to this plant. Unfortunately, lesser occupants such as the Milkweed Tiger Moth and the Red Milkweed Beetle are often ignored as a result. Perhaps it is time to look over this overlook and see what we’ve been missing.

  The Milkweed Tiger pictured above is a member of the Tiger Moth family  Typical of their ilk, they are furry to the extreme and appear to lack a definable head end. They do have a head end, of course, and this can usually be defined as the part nearest the chewed portion of a leaf (here, is an exception to the rule).  This common species chews only on milkweeds and dogbanes. 

  As a milkweed eater, they ingest the cardiac glycosides found in the milky sap of these plants and use the chemical as a predator deterrent.  They try to avoid eating too much of the sap, however, because it gums up their chewing mouthparts (it contains a latex like rubber).

  When young, the Milkweed Tiger is a colonial beast – all the hatchlings stay together and feed together. During this early gregarious stage they carefully skeletonize the leaves and try to keep away from the sappy veins as much as possible. After their third molt, the tiger cubs head off on their own. Older larvae often deliberately cut the main vein, close to the stem, before dining in order to “bleed off” extra sap and make the leaf more palatable. During all this time they ingest just enough poison to keep themselves toxic.

  By the end of the summer these hairy little creatures will descend down into the leaf litter and weave themselves into a nice furry cocoon made up of body “hair” and silk. They will overwinter as pupae and emerge next year as rather plain looking moths.

  Red Milkweed Beetles, the other unappreciated members of milkweed society, are so named because they are (red milkweed eaters, that is). They claim lineage to a group of insects known as longhorn beetles. All members of this group have very long antennae – the so-called “horns” of their type – which emerge out of the forehead uncomfortably close to their eyes. The antennae base on these insects usually overlaps into the eye space, but those on the Milkweed beetle actually divide the eye into two separate parts! Given that there is plenty of room on the head capsule to put these things, it is not certain why this is so. The scientific name of this antennae-eyed creature is Tetraopes tetrophalmus which is Latin double-speak meaning “four eyes.”

  I invite you to pick up a Milkweed Beetle sometime. Hold the creature firmly in your fingers and hold it up close to your ear (see here).  You’ll hear the thing complain about its treatment with a series of raspy squeaks. As long as you maintain your grip they will keep up this mechanical response.  Properly translated, the beetles are probably requesting a return to their food plant and offering some kind of comment on your mother’s ancestry! 

  Milkweed Tiger Moth caterpillars will offer no commentary if similarly handled, but will roll up and attempt to drop to the ground.  Neither beast appreciates the attention – they apparently prefer being overlooked.

     Perhaps no other bird, other than the Red-winged Blackbird, embodies the spirit of the marsh better than the Long-billed Marsh Wren.  While Red-wings frequently leave the marsh and enter into our everyday world, Marsh Wrens hardly ever leave the reedy realms.  To see and hear them you have to seek them in their places.

  True to their name, these wrens inhabit the thick vertical vegetation found in cat-tail and bulrush marshes. As mouse-sized members of the wetland fauna they spend most of their time hopping about in the shadowy depths of the lower stems seeking insects and cover. During the early summer breeding season they create wonderful ball shaped nests located about mid-way up on the cat-tail stems. These structures have bottom entrances and are, as you might suspect, hard to find amongst the tangle of green and brown.  I’ve personally only seen a few and in those cases I had to go knee deep into the marsh.

  Marsh Wrens are visually secretive. More often than not, their presence is betrayed solely by the movement of the upper plant stems as they perch on them down below. When you do spot one, it is usually only for an instant before they melt away (see here). The most notable feature is their diminutive size, up-right tail, and white eye brow stripe. It probably goes without saying that the bill is relatively long (they don’t call ‘em that for nothing).

  These wrens are not audibly secretive, however.  They are constantly calling and commenting on the world around them. Often, a small swatch of marshland will ring out with the dry twittering call of multiple wrens.  I was able to record one of these song bursts at Crosswinds Marsh (Long-billed Marsh Wren) – you’ll need to listen to this sequence several times to get a sense of a talkative wren in action.  My wren apparently sensed my desire to record it and decided to grant me one little burst (but it was a nice little burst).

  After recording this songster and getting one quick photo, I figured that would be all I’d get. This little guy proved to be more generous than I could imagine, however. In a few minutes it emerged out onto the board walk and immediately dropped into a spread eagle pose (see here). The bird was taking advantage of the hot morning sun and performing a little sun bathing ritual.  My presence made him a bit nervous and he frequently hopped back into the shadows. Fortunately, the lure of the summer sun finally overwhelmed the fear factor and he lost all sense of restraint. He eventually let it all hang out (see here).

  In full solar glory, the bird pointed his hind end toward the sun. Every wing and tail feather was fanned out, the body feathers fluffed, and the head turned up and slightly sideways. All that was missing was a reflective panel held under the chin.

  Take a good close look at the detail picture above and you’ll notice that the body feathers are lifted to the point where they expose the naked skin. It must feel good to air out these nether regions. I can’t help but to point out that the patch of bare skin visible in this shot is directly above the tail.  This is wren butt, ladies and gentlemen- a full moon in the full sun.