While I was picking blueberries one morning of late... I was drawn away towards the south field by the Indigo Buntings calls of urgency. I found they were all in a flutter and calling out to one another. The bright blue male (diffracted sunlight) higher up in the pear tree (though distraught he could not resist the allure of the Seckel Pear's fragrance) and the duller stout female in the field below flitting here and there all unfeathered so to speak... she was upset. As I walk about the field, I notice a mole run out of the low growth of golden rod and asters, but there was something larger moving about the leafy terrain right behind it ... perhaps a weasel... a young fledging from a nest in a tangle... but five to fifteen feet above ground... might have flown the coop ... or maybe that slick weasel happened to sniff his or her way to a nest of the new brood and the Indigos were frantic to lead the creature away... then again I might have caused all that fuss of spit calling... I do so hate to take advantage of any distress my bird inhabitants may be under... but I did tarry there and allowed my shutter to flutter a bit. So here you may enjoy my findings... still not sure... an unsolved mystery of what all the fuss was about. For each day after the Indigo father sits high upon the tip of a gray birch and sings out into the garden air ... so all must be fair with the Indigos. I should be most lucky to happen upon their fledglings!
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