It's a jungle out there

It was a picture-perfect Saturday afternoon. Sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. Warm, but not humid. Heading outside with the novel I was reading, I eased into one of our new Adirondack chairs, which I had placed beside the trunk of the large pear tree that has stood guard over our yard for many years.

Suddenly, a blue jay landed on the edge of the bird bath, about eight feet to my left. After taking a few sips from its perch, it plopped into the water and began splashing around in one of those bathing frenzies that are so much fun to watch. Ever-industrious bumblebees went about their business in the rhododendrons behind me.

Moments later, I heard a slight rustling in the tree. Glancing up, I spotted a black-capped chickadee rubbing its beak on a branch about six feet above my head. I smiled quietly. Ah, the chipper little chickadee - the state bird of Maine (where we now live) as well as Massachusetts (where Liz and I grew up). Once, when I was a kid, I got a chickadee to feed from my hand by standing perfectly still for several minutes, palm extended.

As I basked in the memory of that close encounter of the avian kind, I sensed, more than saw, movement within inches of my face, as if someone had dropped something small from above. Looking down at my newly washed shirt, I spotted a small, off-white, wet deposit below the right pocket. The songbird that had been perched overhead was now gone, but he had left a little something behind to remember him by.

The backyard. It's the critters' world. We humans just live in it.