Back in the middle of December of 2012, while standing in a long line at a regional hypermarket chain store, I scanned the magazine rack and found only one option: National Geographic’s December 2012 issue. The featured cover story—The World’s Largest Trees—immediately grabbed my interest. The magazine opened right up to a foldout poster of a giant sequoia. I had to page back for the beginning of the article, and I started reading about this tree named The President. After a few pages, it was finally almost my turn to check out. I was about to place the magazine back in the rack when something even more fascinating caught my eye: pictures of birds, pictures of birds of paradise. I closed the magazine to check for a price, but before I could find one, it flew from my hands and landed in my shopping cart.
Later that night, after reading Paradise Found, I went to National Geographic online to see if I could find further information. I didn’t. I did this morning though. See.
For the First Time, All 39 Species of Birds-of-Paradise Have Been Capture on Film
For centuries the bird-of-paradise has been a byword for exotic animals and faraway locales, but actually documenting this family has been near impossible. Now, thanks to 8 years and 18 expeditions into Australia, Papua New Guinea, and surrounding islands, the birds have finally all been recorded. (Click the link, then click the video starter arrow)
http://www.popphoto.com/news/2013/02/first-time-all-39-species-birds-paradise-have-been-capture-film
Birds-of-Paradise Project
The birds-of-paradise are among the most beautiful creatures on earth—and an extraordinary example of evolutionary adaptation. On this site you can find what few have witnessed in the wild: the displays of color, sound, and motion that make these birds so remarkable. Then you can delve deeper, examining the principles that guided their evolution and the epic adventure it took to bring you all 39 species. (Click the link, click the “Introduction” tab, and then click the video starter arrow)
http://www.birdsofparadiseproject.org/
By the Numbers
What does it take to come home from New Guinea with images of all 39 species of birds-of-paradise? Summing it up in two numbers—18 expeditions and 8 years—tells only part of the story. Numbers like 544 days, 109 blinds, and 39,568 photos give a little more perspective. Take a look at more numbers from the project to sense some of the energy and dedication that were required behind the scenes. (Click the link, then click the video starter arrow)
http://www.birdsofparadiseproject.org/media.php?page=103
Scientist Bios
Edwin Scholes—Evolutionary Biologist
Tim Laman—Wildlife Photojournalist and Field Biologisthttp://www.birdsofparadiseproject.org/media.php?page=116
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
DINING WITH MY BEST FRIENDS
On December 22, 2012, the sun began setting later and later in the evening; and on January 6, 2013, the sun began rising earlier and earlier in the morning: meaning I’ll gradually start seeing my best friends more and more instead of less and less.
I’m referring to my first visitors in the morning and my last visitors in the evening. Cast to a predominance of relative gloom, ever since autumn—when time fell back—I’ve only had the chance to watch them eat dinner on Saturdays, Sundays, and on the three weekday holidays that just passed. One might think that should have been enough, and maybe it was enough: just enough, because it seems that maybe, perhaps, hopefully we’ve made it through the worst of times.
Nonetheless,it pains me to come home from work in the dark and find their particular feeder empty, and I agonize over taking their particular feeder down before going to work in lieu of letting the squirrels eat it all up by noon. Pretty soon, however, I’ll be able to fill that feeder back up or hang that feeder back up before they fly in for that daily last meal.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy experiencing them.., …watching them… …do breakfast. I most certainly do enjoy it, and always will. As a matter of fact, I’ve been setting my clock for six-thirty AM on weekends in order to be there when they come.
Every morning, as soon as the sky starts to slightly brighten, they noisily start trickling in. This has been so ever since I first started strategically placing small piles of bird food on my second floor back patio deck.** Since those years-ago days, there have been very, very few occasions when breakfast hasn’t been there for them. Granted, they make that little ticking sound*** whether the food is out there or not—and admittedly, I don’t really know what they are saying with those closed-beak**** morning tweets—but I choose to believe that they are expressing joy when food is there and disconsolation when it is not. Consequently, I feel so heart-wrenched listening to them when food is not there that, since my early September move to my current home, I have made absolutely sure that their favorite fare is available to them every single morning.
Looking out the window, toward that feeder and their pre-dawn vocalizations, initially and despite the faint glow of my porch light, I can’t see the sources. I know who they are, though. I recognize—not so much their voices—but their language. Sometimes, shortly after my best friends arrive, I hear the voices of welcomed interlopers, but the darkness doesn’t render them incognito. Mockingbirds don’t always mock. Sometimes they just be themselves, and squawk. Male Carolina Wrens try to fit in by attempting unseasonable replications my best friends’ spring and summer proclamation riffs. They don’t come close, however, because their voices are way too melodious to confuse them with the rock ‘n roll cords of my best friends. Then there’s the male Song Sparrow who can’t resist a higher-decibel chorus. When he first does it, it seems as though everyone stops and looks in his direction for a moment, quickly sizes it up as cool, and resumes the song.
Inevitably, a few minutes later, I’m able to see silhouettes flittering and fluttering about the miniscule glints reflecting off that feeder; and, naturally, after a few more minutes, I become able to see hints of color.
Subsequently, the sun—whether the sky is overcast or not—starts to ascend above the eastern horizon, and I can then clearly see them: albeit still too dim to get good pictures insomuch as my best friends are to the west and the structure of my home is situated between them and the direct morning sunlight. Due to the obstruction, the only good pictures that I can take are taken with my eyes, and then are stored in the cluttered, unkempt, and virtually unsharable memory of my brain.
Thus, I cannot show how much I thoroughly enjoy experiencing my best friends’ morning arrival, cannot depict how much I thoroughly enjoy my brief workday morning minutes of being able to catch glimpses of them eating breakfast, but so far, it pales in comparison with watching them eat dinner. The sight, the sound, the mood… …emits, conveys, and exudes a more profound aura of accord.
Keeping in mind that the context is very late summer, autumn, and early winter in Louisville, Kentucky, dinner starts as soon as the sun completely descends below the western horizon. After all of the other birds have called it a day, my best friends start to arrive one at a time although closely followed by a mate and, in a couple of cases, offspring. They swoop in directly toward the feeder, save for their instinctual altitudinal undulations. It’s often a brave female who comes first, takes a seed to show that all is well, and then quickly defers, moves away from the feeder to accommodate her mate.
Soon, another one flies in. Moments later, in comes another, and another, and another. One evening, in early October, my field of vision allowed me to count eleven of them: among them were two juvenile females and one juvenile male. Eleven of my best friends—in the same place, at the same time, and not fighting—made for quite the sight to behold.
Generally, the males eat first and rather peacefully work out which of them eats first, second, third, and last; and only a particular male’s mate is deigned to eat on the other side of the feeder at the same time. The young ones disregard the feeder altogether, content with foraging through the grass beneath the feeder for spillage. Adults not at the feeder occasionally join the young ones on the ground, but more often than not, they simply perch a limb in the tree and wait their turn.
The atmosphere is reminiscent of humans conducting themselves appropriately in a fine dining establishment. The exception being such that—with well-mannered humans having dinner in a ritzy restaurant—one would expect to hear the low murmur of quiet voices, the occasional clink of a glass, or the faint sounds of forks coming in gentle contact with plates; but such is not the case with my best friends.
When the cardinals eat dinner, they do it silently: not making a sound.
References
***little ticking sound
http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Northern_Cardinal/sounds
http://www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0011923
I’m referring to my first visitors in the morning and my last visitors in the evening. Cast to a predominance of relative gloom, ever since autumn—when time fell back—I’ve only had the chance to watch them eat dinner on Saturdays, Sundays, and on the three weekday holidays that just passed. One might think that should have been enough, and maybe it was enough: just enough, because it seems that maybe, perhaps, hopefully we’ve made it through the worst of times.
Nonetheless,it pains me to come home from work in the dark and find their particular feeder empty, and I agonize over taking their particular feeder down before going to work in lieu of letting the squirrels eat it all up by noon. Pretty soon, however, I’ll be able to fill that feeder back up or hang that feeder back up before they fly in for that daily last meal.
Their
Particular Feeder
It’s not that I don’t enjoy experiencing them.., …watching them… …do breakfast. I most certainly do enjoy it, and always will. As a matter of fact, I’ve been setting my clock for six-thirty AM on weekends in order to be there when they come.
Every morning, as soon as the sky starts to slightly brighten, they noisily start trickling in. This has been so ever since I first started strategically placing small piles of bird food on my second floor back patio deck.** Since those years-ago days, there have been very, very few occasions when breakfast hasn’t been there for them. Granted, they make that little ticking sound*** whether the food is out there or not—and admittedly, I don’t really know what they are saying with those closed-beak**** morning tweets—but I choose to believe that they are expressing joy when food is there and disconsolation when it is not. Consequently, I feel so heart-wrenched listening to them when food is not there that, since my early September move to my current home, I have made absolutely sure that their favorite fare is available to them every single morning.
Looking out the window, toward that feeder and their pre-dawn vocalizations, initially and despite the faint glow of my porch light, I can’t see the sources. I know who they are, though. I recognize—not so much their voices—but their language. Sometimes, shortly after my best friends arrive, I hear the voices of welcomed interlopers, but the darkness doesn’t render them incognito. Mockingbirds don’t always mock. Sometimes they just be themselves, and squawk. Male Carolina Wrens try to fit in by attempting unseasonable replications my best friends’ spring and summer proclamation riffs. They don’t come close, however, because their voices are way too melodious to confuse them with the rock ‘n roll cords of my best friends. Then there’s the male Song Sparrow who can’t resist a higher-decibel chorus. When he first does it, it seems as though everyone stops and looks in his direction for a moment, quickly sizes it up as cool, and resumes the song.
Inevitably, a few minutes later, I’m able to see silhouettes flittering and fluttering about the miniscule glints reflecting off that feeder; and, naturally, after a few more minutes, I become able to see hints of color.
Subsequently, the sun—whether the sky is overcast or not—starts to ascend above the eastern horizon, and I can then clearly see them: albeit still too dim to get good pictures insomuch as my best friends are to the west and the structure of my home is situated between them and the direct morning sunlight. Due to the obstruction, the only good pictures that I can take are taken with my eyes, and then are stored in the cluttered, unkempt, and virtually unsharable memory of my brain.
Thus, I cannot show how much I thoroughly enjoy experiencing my best friends’ morning arrival, cannot depict how much I thoroughly enjoy my brief workday morning minutes of being able to catch glimpses of them eating breakfast, but so far, it pales in comparison with watching them eat dinner. The sight, the sound, the mood… …emits, conveys, and exudes a more profound aura of accord.
Keeping in mind that the context is very late summer, autumn, and early winter in Louisville, Kentucky, dinner starts as soon as the sun completely descends below the western horizon. After all of the other birds have called it a day, my best friends start to arrive one at a time although closely followed by a mate and, in a couple of cases, offspring. They swoop in directly toward the feeder, save for their instinctual altitudinal undulations. It’s often a brave female who comes first, takes a seed to show that all is well, and then quickly defers, moves away from the feeder to accommodate her mate.
Soon, another one flies in. Moments later, in comes another, and another, and another. One evening, in early October, my field of vision allowed me to count eleven of them: among them were two juvenile females and one juvenile male. Eleven of my best friends—in the same place, at the same time, and not fighting—made for quite the sight to behold.
Generally, the males eat first and rather peacefully work out which of them eats first, second, third, and last; and only a particular male’s mate is deigned to eat on the other side of the feeder at the same time. The young ones disregard the feeder altogether, content with foraging through the grass beneath the feeder for spillage. Adults not at the feeder occasionally join the young ones on the ground, but more often than not, they simply perch a limb in the tree and wait their turn.
The atmosphere is reminiscent of humans conducting themselves appropriately in a fine dining establishment. The exception being such that—with well-mannered humans having dinner in a ritzy restaurant—one would expect to hear the low murmur of quiet voices, the occasional clink of a glass, or the faint sounds of forks coming in gentle contact with plates; but such is not the case with my best friends.
When the cardinals eat dinner, they do it silently: not making a sound.
References
*December 29, 2012
http://www.photoshop.com/users/mitchelle_levone_wright/albums/3dad5bef909942c9978b19841c7a0740
**
ever since I first started strategically
placing small piles of bird food on my second floor back patio deck.
***little ticking sound
http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Northern_Cardinal/sounds
****closed beak
Regarding frequency range it seems that a
closed beak filters frequencies above 6 kHz whereas a wide beak gape emphasizes
high frequencies above 5 kHz and over a broader frequency range.http://www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0011923
Sunday, September 30, 2012
To Denise Russell: ON CAGING BIRDS
“Unfortunately, because of their beauty,
these small finches are captured from the wild by trappers in South Florida and
smuggled to South America to become pets. This practice not only reduces their
numbers, it skews the bird population when the trappers take only the showy
adult males. Painted Buntings are currently listed as: Near threatened by the
IUCN and are protected by the U.S. Migratory Bird Act.”
http://birds.joy.net/photo/female-painted-bunting?xg_source=activity
I felt great pride, joy, and satisfaction with my birdroom, felt I was
doing a good thing by taking such well care of my birds. I maintained that menagerie
for quite some time, but then, after being visited by a bird breeder, eventually
settled on the breeding a single species: the Double-barred Bicheno Owl Finch. There was nothing like the sound of over
a dozen Owl Finches greeting the opening of the blinds and the sudden morning
sunlight with what I certainly interpreted as cheers.
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,
When he beats his bars and would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –
I know why the caged bird sings. ---Paul Laurence Dunbar
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mux5YhT2MRk
http://birds.joy.net/photo/female-painted-bunting?xg_source=activity
As one who is guilty of having once caged birds as pets, my conscience
compels me to address the issue of trapping, smuggling, and keeping them as
pets.
Back in 1962, at the age of five, I came home to discover a new resident in
our home. My grandmother had acquired a white parakeet. It was love at first
sight for me. She told me that his name was Pretty Boy and that I could teach
him to talk. I didn’t, for one second, believe that it could talk; however, I
did spend countless hours watching it hop around in its tiny cage. I often
begged my grandmother to let it out of its cage so I could watch it fly. She
always denied my requests. Of course, I eventually took it upon myself to just
open the cage door and watch. After seeing what it took to get Pretty Boy back
in his cage, I decided I would never do that again.
In the mid-eighties, I discovered the pet store world of exotic finches, and became addicted to
collecting pairs of so-called Australian finches: Masked Finches, Shaft-tail Grassfinches, Black-throated Finches, and Chestnut-breasted Mannikins just to name a few. I studied them, studied about them, and spent
thousands of dollars and hours in collecting and maintaining them. I turned a
spare bedroom of my home into what I called the birdroom. The birdroom contained
about twenty relatively large cages. The wall-to-wall carpet was covered with
wall-to-wall clear plastic matting, the walls were painted with washable satin
paint, Vita-Lite full spectrum lighting was installed, and in the center of the
birdroom sat a huge cage lined three quarters up in clear thick plastic. It
contained the biggest “exotic finch” I ever acquired: a Dusky Lory.
As time passed, I soon realized that could not sell them because of the
emotional attachment of having watched them go from egg to full feather. Finally,
due to job relocation, I ended up giving them to the breeder who had gotten me
started and had taught me so much.
Now, decades later, I somewhat—but not totally—regret my contribution to
illegal bird trafficking, and although I didn’t personally bring them here from
their native countries, I rather shamefully see my birdroom as just a little
more than a well-kept bird prison.
I still have a lot of birds at my home, but they now come and go as they
please. I especially love it when parents bring their new offspring to my
feeders and when I see one of them splashing around in my bird bath on a hot
summer day.
As far as bird trappers and smugglers are concerned, I wish I could make
them stop endangering every bird species. At the same time, I wish these same
trappers could be employed to good use. I wish we could capture and facilitate
the breeding of endangered bird species to the point where they would no longer
be even remotely endangered. I wish secure environments could be created to
facilitate the proliferation of endangered bird species regardless of source of
threat. I know that many species of birds will not breed in captivity; however,
if humans can build a ski resort in the
middle of the desert, why
can’t humans build a Painted Bunting habitat in Florida. The question is really
not a question, because I know the answer: money.
If I were King of the World, though, a bird’s life would be more coveted
than money: sort of like the age-old reality of money being more coveted than
human life.
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,
When he beats his bars and would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –
I know why the caged bird sings. ---Paul Laurence Dunbar
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mux5YhT2MRk
Sunday, September 16, 2012
FAVORITE PHOTOS: 120719 (0748-0755)
Following my perceived botched Great Blue Heron encounter, I resolved to see if I could find a preoccupied bird that didn't see my human presence or a trusting bird didn’t see my human presence as threatening.
Almost immediately, I heard a familiar sound, and pursued it. It wasn’t long before I came upon and saw the source… …or sources: Pileated Woodpeckers. There were three of them when I first spied them, but one of them immediately took off, left in a noisy exit.
Subsequently, I began to shoot, click away at the two of them who stayed before me. I instantly recognized one of them as a male, and began focusing on the red mustache. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I tried to get both of them by focusing on some point between them. After a minute of two, I realized their pattern of traversing up and down the tree. They would walk, climb, scale up the tree several feet while pecking at it, and then descend back down to the ground, only to start back up it again. They did this repeatedly.
One did it gracefully..,
…and the other flopped, dropped, stumbled, and flailed.
It would be a lie to even imply that I knew what was going on as I viewed the eight-minutes-long spectacle. All I was concentrating on was getting closer, getting them when they weren’t driving their heads toward the tree, getting clearer shots, getting both of them together, getting their eyes. In fact, for all I knew at the time, I was shooting two birds looking for or feasting upon something good to eat in that tree.
A father and son.
Here they are:
I thought I had been spotted by the one that left the other two, but, in hindsight, what I think I saw was a mother telling her mate to teach his son how to find food while she goes to eat breakfast in peace for the first time in two months.
Almost immediately, I heard a familiar sound, and pursued it. It wasn’t long before I came upon and saw the source… …or sources: Pileated Woodpeckers. There were three of them when I first spied them, but one of them immediately took off, left in a noisy exit.
Subsequently, I began to shoot, click away at the two of them who stayed before me. I instantly recognized one of them as a male, and began focusing on the red mustache. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I tried to get both of them by focusing on some point between them. After a minute of two, I realized their pattern of traversing up and down the tree. They would walk, climb, scale up the tree several feet while pecking at it, and then descend back down to the ground, only to start back up it again. They did this repeatedly.
One did it gracefully..,
…and the other flopped, dropped, stumbled, and flailed.
It would be a lie to even imply that I knew what was going on as I viewed the eight-minutes-long spectacle. All I was concentrating on was getting closer, getting them when they weren’t driving their heads toward the tree, getting clearer shots, getting both of them together, getting their eyes. In fact, for all I knew at the time, I was shooting two birds looking for or feasting upon something good to eat in that tree.
A father and son.
Here they are:
I thought I had been spotted by the one that left the other two, but, in hindsight, what I think I saw was a mother telling her mate to teach his son how to find food while she goes to eat breakfast in peace for the first time in two months.
Monday, September 10, 2012
FAVORITE PHOTOS: 120719 (prelude)
For me and my immediate family, the highlight of every summer is the extended family’s annual pilgrimage to Bailey’s Point, Kentucky, which is a camping area situated on a bank of Barren River Lake. (See the peninsula extending out from the south and east of the A, while west of the two lake islands.)
This year, I and my immediate family arrived there on the 18th of July, and I was up and at it on the 19th by 0700 hours. The place is rather large, but there was a particular area I had long been planning to check out first. There was somebody I wanted to see, someone who had kind’a gotten away from me the year before. This guy:
_edited-1.jpg)
The above image of a Great Blue Heron was my first somewhat of a capture on the first morning of last year’s stay at Lake Barren. I saw it finishing breakfast in the shallow water of a cove, but not before it saw me. By the time I got over the surprise and was able to focus, it was way high and far away. I went to look for it again first thing on each subsequent morning of the stay, but had no luck.
Over a year later, I was back at it. As I came around the stand of trees to view the cove, just like before, I watched it lift off. If you know anything about the Canon XS’s you know that they take a while to focus. Well, despite being ready for the surprise, I was nonetheless surprised; and by the time I had gotten myself and my camera focused, it had happened again. See:
The irony of getting almost identical misses two years in a row left me wondering whether I had been cursed or blessed.
I later saw the answer.
This year, I and my immediate family arrived there on the 18th of July, and I was up and at it on the 19th by 0700 hours. The place is rather large, but there was a particular area I had long been planning to check out first. There was somebody I wanted to see, someone who had kind’a gotten away from me the year before. This guy:
_edited-1.jpg)
The above image of a Great Blue Heron was my first somewhat of a capture on the first morning of last year’s stay at Lake Barren. I saw it finishing breakfast in the shallow water of a cove, but not before it saw me. By the time I got over the surprise and was able to focus, it was way high and far away. I went to look for it again first thing on each subsequent morning of the stay, but had no luck.
Over a year later, I was back at it. As I came around the stand of trees to view the cove, just like before, I watched it lift off. If you know anything about the Canon XS’s you know that they take a while to focus. Well, despite being ready for the surprise, I was nonetheless surprised; and by the time I had gotten myself and my camera focused, it had happened again. See:
The irony of getting almost identical misses two years in a row left me wondering whether I had been cursed or blessed.
I later saw the answer.
See the bird in the upper right corner? That was my sign.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
FAVORITE PHOTOS: 120701
Granted, the Yellow-billed Cuckoo made my day on the first of July, 2012, but there were a few more of my feathered friends who were there as well. There was a Blue Jay who basically demanded that I take his picture. My favorite goose in the whole wide world was there. There was a pain-in-the-neck male Orchard Oriole who kept me looking almost straight up for roughly ten minutes as he sang his little song from the tops of the highest trees. His wife was there, and she, too, was a pain in the neck. I really did have to look straight up to get her, although she did grant me a face-to-face visit along with a rather forward display of her backside. :) There were also a couple curious young Eastern Bluebirds who didn't seem bothered at all by my presence nor by my focus beam, and there was a Gray Catbird who seemed a quite taken aback by the fact that I had even laid eyes on it.
My top five quality photos:
In time line order, here are the twelve runners up:
All in all, it was a good day even if I had not gotten good pics of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
YELLOW-BILLED CUCKOO: 120701
On the morning of July 1st, 2012, I, again, went birding at Long Run Park, and almost immediately got graced with a special gift from Mother Nature. Prior to this day, I had gotten only two images of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo: the most exotic bird I have ever seen roaming freely in the United States of America.
That would be these two immediately below.
_edited-1.jpg)
_edited-1.jpg)
These rather bad, but quite precious, images were captured at Long Run Park on July 10th, 2011, and I had been hoping to get better ones ever since. After going almost a year without seeing another one, I had gradually succumbed to the mindset that I would probably never ever see another one again; but, lo and behold, on July 1st, 2012, at 8:23AM, I saw a familiar silhouette. Suspicious, hopeful, optimistic, but not sure, I took a shot, although the sun was shining from the bird's other side.
This heavily edited photograph could have been it—another somewhat lost chance, another good bad photo, another good bad memory—but this was not it. At 8:28AM (five minutes later), after I had been a bit distracted by a Yellow-shafted Northern Flicker, after I had maneuvered myself into a position whereby I had put myself somewhat closer to being between the sun and where I had seen the silhouette, I got a clear view, a positive ID, and another shot..; ...and another, and another, and another. For approximately eight minutes, the Yellow-billed Cuckoo stayed high up in a tree, moving about within a small, limited area while melodically clicking away, sounding much like a Summer Tanager, while obviously refusing to give away, clearly refusing to reveal to me the delivery destination of that freshly caught, nutritious looking, leaf looking bug.
In the bird part of my brain, I knew I was keeping it from approaching its young, who I figured was located somewhere low to the ground and between me and it. (The bird was maybe sixty feet up, and I was at least fifty feet from the base of the tree.) Further, my instincts told me that my stalling subject was a female, because it has been my experience that males tend to be less cautious—while females tend to be tremendously cautious—about revealing the whereabouts of their nests and their young ones when feeding.
Be that as it may, however, at 8:31AM—three minutes into the shoot—I got, what I think, is my best quality shot of her.
I could be wrong, but I don't think so..: ...referring to the her part.
What follows are what I judge to be my next four best quality photographs of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo of 120701.
As far as zooming in and real close-ups go, I think the above capture was my best one.
I really like the above photograph because I managed to get her eye color and pupil.
In the above photograph, I didn't get her pretty eye, nor even her beautiful face, but I did get the bug's eye, and the entire image is perfectly focused. If one clicks on either the picture or the link, one can even see the fine threads of a spider's web in the upper third of the scene. I think that says a lot about the Canon SX40HS when considering that the bird was about sixty feet up and I was about fifty feet from the base of the tree.
For me, concerning the quality of the above photograph, the picture could have been a little sharper for my complete satisfaction, and especially so about the head and face. Insomuch as I was dealing with a sun and shade contrast, not to mention a moving subject, however, I nonetheless deem the picture quality to be pretty good. Moreover, the striking pose, that was captured in the exposure, is utterly, totally, absolutely priceless. Whenever examining this photograph, as I have done many times, over and over and again , three adjectives and a stubborn, unverifiable conviction immediately and consistently comes to my mind. Elegant, sleek, graceful, are the adjectives, and a female is the stubborn, unverifiable conviction.
Okay, enough with the mushy stuff. What follows are eight more photographs of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo that I think are presentable.
Again, note the spider web.
Thank you, Mother Nature.
That would be these two immediately below.
_edited-1.jpg)
_edited-1.jpg)
These rather bad, but quite precious, images were captured at Long Run Park on July 10th, 2011, and I had been hoping to get better ones ever since. After going almost a year without seeing another one, I had gradually succumbed to the mindset that I would probably never ever see another one again; but, lo and behold, on July 1st, 2012, at 8:23AM, I saw a familiar silhouette. Suspicious, hopeful, optimistic, but not sure, I took a shot, although the sun was shining from the bird's other side.
This heavily edited photograph could have been it—another somewhat lost chance, another good bad photo, another good bad memory—but this was not it. At 8:28AM (five minutes later), after I had been a bit distracted by a Yellow-shafted Northern Flicker, after I had maneuvered myself into a position whereby I had put myself somewhat closer to being between the sun and where I had seen the silhouette, I got a clear view, a positive ID, and another shot..; ...and another, and another, and another. For approximately eight minutes, the Yellow-billed Cuckoo stayed high up in a tree, moving about within a small, limited area while melodically clicking away, sounding much like a Summer Tanager, while obviously refusing to give away, clearly refusing to reveal to me the delivery destination of that freshly caught, nutritious looking, leaf looking bug.
In the bird part of my brain, I knew I was keeping it from approaching its young, who I figured was located somewhere low to the ground and between me and it. (The bird was maybe sixty feet up, and I was at least fifty feet from the base of the tree.) Further, my instincts told me that my stalling subject was a female, because it has been my experience that males tend to be less cautious—while females tend to be tremendously cautious—about revealing the whereabouts of their nests and their young ones when feeding.
Be that as it may, however, at 8:31AM—three minutes into the shoot—I got, what I think, is my best quality shot of her.
I could be wrong, but I don't think so..: ...referring to the her part.
What follows are what I judge to be my next four best quality photographs of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo of 120701.
As far as zooming in and real close-ups go, I think the above capture was my best one.
I really like the above photograph because I managed to get her eye color and pupil.
In the above photograph, I didn't get her pretty eye, nor even her beautiful face, but I did get the bug's eye, and the entire image is perfectly focused. If one clicks on either the picture or the link, one can even see the fine threads of a spider's web in the upper third of the scene. I think that says a lot about the Canon SX40HS when considering that the bird was about sixty feet up and I was about fifty feet from the base of the tree.
For me, concerning the quality of the above photograph, the picture could have been a little sharper for my complete satisfaction, and especially so about the head and face. Insomuch as I was dealing with a sun and shade contrast, not to mention a moving subject, however, I nonetheless deem the picture quality to be pretty good. Moreover, the striking pose, that was captured in the exposure, is utterly, totally, absolutely priceless. Whenever examining this photograph, as I have done many times, over and over and again , three adjectives and a stubborn, unverifiable conviction immediately and consistently comes to my mind. Elegant, sleek, graceful, are the adjectives, and a female is the stubborn, unverifiable conviction.
Okay, enough with the mushy stuff. What follows are eight more photographs of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo that I think are presentable.
Note the spider web.
Again, note the spider web.
Thank you, Mother Nature.
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