Category / Birds

by John

Something Red

Like it or not, the color red makes its presence felt. Associated with love or anger, pain or pleasure, it evokes an emotional response.

Here, after a fourth spine surgery, Lilian walks towards the setting Arizona sun. There is very little red in this image but, against the darkness of the photograph, it draws our attention to her pain.

Pain clinics are quite places.

In the desiccating heat of the Sonoran Desert, a Barrel Cactus blooms.

In the desert, we provide water. In the snowy north we fill the feeder with sunflower seed. The cardinal comes to us, a red reward: A living valentine’s card, if you will.

Cornell Lab of Ornithology

Each heart inside each bird, though smaller and faster beating, is similar to ours. And we share in the electro-chemical miracle that produces an electrical current from the movement of sodium, potassium and calcium ions through the heart cells. And these electrical signals keep us alive and keep the birds flying. All of us.

In the image below, there are several colors, black, green and red, but the red stands out.

Josef Albers (1888 – 1976) was a prominent figure in color theory and art education. He is most well-known for his work on color perception and interaction. He emphasized that color is a relative medium, influenced by context, light, and surrounding colors as is the case in this image of a red amaryllis.

This amaryllis was a gift in 2025, a bulb in a pot. It flowered in January. In the spring, we planted the bulb the garden then brought it back inside in September. In January 2026 it was in full flower again. Today the flowers are gone and the plant is patiently waiting to be planted back in the garden again when the danger of frost is past.

What do you see in the image below?

Yes, a red barn and a red shed. Even though there is as much green, we see the red. If a three-month-old infant looked at the scene, what would he or she see? Certainly not a red barn but rather shapes and colors. Perhaps the child would be attracted by the red, as we are. It is sometimes good to imagine seeing in the way of a child.

n the early nineteenth century, a non-objective art form emerged, art that does not attempt to accurately represent a visual reality. It is characterized by the absence of recognizable objects or figures, focusing instead on elements such as color, shape, line, and form to create a purely visual experience for the viewer. Pioneered by artists like Kandinsky and Malevich, the objective of non-objective art was to evoke emotions, sensations, or ideas, independently of the constraint of representational art.


Mark Rothko and Donal Jud are just two contemporary non-objective artists who make frequent use of the color red. It is unsurprising that they and other artists, who goal is to provoke an emotional response to their non-objective work, would work in red.

Vir Heroicus Sublimis Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Here is Lil walking past Barnett Newman’s (1950-1951) work at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Because this work falls into the category of non-objective painting, some would say that it should not be judged but only experienced subjectively. This raises the interesting question of how a museum decides what paintings to add to its collection.

Off the cost of Quepos, Costa Rica

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning

A red flower in the desert blooms.
It blooms for just a day or two.
It blooms for you the passerby
So, pause and look while on the path.
You’ll both be leaving soon.

by John

Thoughts about a goldfinch

The American goldfinch (Spinus tristis) is a small North American bird in the finch family.

If one lives in a place long enough, one begins to recognize seasonal cycles among some of the bird species that visit the garden each year. Many of us associate the goldfinch with the brightly colored male, the yellow bird that shows up in the spring.

For me, I think of the paler birds feeding on seeds in our flower garden before they leave for the winter. The image above evokes a feeling of anticipated nostalgia because, as we observe it, we remember it will not last.

But we remember the goldfinch clinging to plant stems in our garden last year.

And we remember their acrobatic movements, sometimes hanging upside-down to reach the seed in the remains of a flower, sometimes pulling off the petals to reach the ovary of the flower exposing the seed. Often sharing their activity with other goldfinch.

And, as I watch the birds swaying on a flower stalk, I remember a circus performance at a book fair in Tucson, Arizona, more than ten years ago. And now I recognize the acrobat as a goldfinch.

And I look across the room and see the cushion that Lilian made, and I again recognize the bird.


And I remember a short poem I wrote:

The Scientist

I heard a scientist so teach,
We crawled from slime onto the beach,
Our home the grey soup sea:
But not content to stay that way,
By Darwin we were led astray,
Reborn as chimpanzees.

On this the scientist holds fast:
Its back to dust in the great At Last;
No trumpet will be heard.
Why is it then that we look higher
With such absurd ingrained desire
To fly as if a bird?

And I remember watching a lesser goldfinch flying down to a bird bath in our Arizona garden.

Poetry at times gives way to science,
In almost speechless awe
At the sheer computing capability
That directs this bird, this drone, to fly.
Sensors seamlessly streaming
Ten thousand bits of data
To its blazing CPU that is
Something less than thimble size.
Data processed in an instant,
Firing commands that guide
The flight in swooping arcs,
Never for one moment pausing
In that speed of light tango
Of messages received and sent;
Searching for the shimmer
Of two hydrogen atoms
Covalently bonded
To a single oxygen atom
That, in its pre-programmed
DNA-lodged algorithm,
Spells water:
And this, more than all
The galaxies in night’s dark sky,
Takes my breath away:
The nervous birdbath landing
Of a Lesser Finch.

by John

Summer Pairings

Here is the first Monarch to visit our garden this year. It was a welcome surprise because the numbers of Monarch butterflies are dwindling. They have started migrating from their breeding grounds in Canada on a long journey through the US to Mexico, often covering fifty to a hundred miles per day, reaching their destination near early November.

Several tornados touched down in Northeast Ohio yesterday, yet the butterfly shown above survived to replete its store of energy by extracting nectar from verbena flowers in our garden. The damaged wing is likely a result of the storm.

Another pair of reliable visitors are woodpeckers who come to feed on suet in our feeders. The first image is that of a Downy Woodpecker, the smallest species of woodpecker in North America.

The second image is that of the larger Hairy Woodpecker that gets its name from the long, thread-like white feathers that run down the middle of its black back. Like the smaller Downy it is at home at the edge of forests such as the one behind our home.

Another summer pairing in our garden is Cosmos, the familiar annual with colorful, daisy-like flowers in the sunflower family that sit atop long, slender stems. They attract birds, bees and butterflies to the garden.

Another variety of Cosmos is a tall plant with semi-double and double flowers ruffled in a variety shades – violet, lavender, white, and cream.

As I walk under the old oak tree behind the house or the tall red maple in the front, I’m reminded by some mushrooms of the microscopic network of fungus interwoven with the tree roots below the surface.

Mushrooms that I see above ground are the fruit of the fungus just below the surface. Generally, the fungus feeds on dead organic matter like rotten wood, returning its constituent matter to the soil. Its fruit, the mushrooms, are a reminder of the complex neuronal system of the tree roots just below the surface that live in partnership with fungi.

A final pairing on today’s walk around the house: Two tomatoes in a pot, green but turning red: A sign of many more warm summer days to come.

by John

The Song of a Bird

Perhaps one shouldn’t write about the song of a bird. Certainly not a poem. The birdsong is enough.

And yet, I’m compelled to share my early morning experience, walking under the trees in the half-light before sunrise last spring under the dark shapes of maple, oak, and fir. I couldn’t see any birds but I heard them, above and on the sides. Different sounds, males calling females and birds claiming their territory. For a moment I was pulled into another world. A world bursting with joy and with life.

I had my phone with me and I photograph the sky as if to say, “I see you”. Then I recorded the birds singing, as if to say “I hear you.” There was a magic dialogue.

The phone then analyzed the sounds and gave me a report. The spell was broken. Technology should have no place in the contemplative experience, at least not for this eighty-two-year-old.