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OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A male Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, wearing the muted reds of his non-breeding plumage, works his way up toward the sap wells he drilled in the trunk of an old, weathered sugar maple. Frederick County, Maryland.
#birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Woodpeckers

A male Yellow-bellied Sapsucker clings vertically to the rough bark of an old maple. His back and face show a checkered pattern of crisp black and white feathers, while a bright but subdued wash of red colors his chin and crest. Soft, flecked highlights run along the swept-back feathers of his head, catching the light around a dark, alert eye. His bill is a muted gray, and along the flank there’s just a faint hint of the bird’s namesake yellow belly. The background is a gentle blur of winter-blue sky and pale branches, giving the scene a quiet, early-morning feel.

November 26, 2025 at 11:47 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A Cedar Waxwing 🪶 perched among the tangled branches of a multiflora rose, feasting on the bright red hips.

#birds #birding #BirdPhotography #naturePhotography #CedarWaxwing

When we were occupied the days were long and hollow.
We rose with the gray light, tilled our fields beneath the watchtowers, and spoke softly so the wind could not carry the old prayers.
The festivals were forbidden—no fires on the hills, no songs for the rivers.
The druids’ stones were toppled, their names unspoken.
Even the land seemed to sleep beneath the weight of Roman law.

Praefectus called us to the green below the Great Oak.
The old, gnarled tree spread wide on the ridge—roots older than memory, branches thick with the wisdom of age.
Its bark still bore the ghost of the old runes, though the soldiers had scraped them once.
We gathered there, thin and silent, and the Roman mounted a stone, sword at his hip.

“People of the frontier,” he said, voice smooth as river clay,
“you live in the peace of Rome.
No hunger, no chaos, no fear.
The Empire shall endure forever, and your children will praise it as you do today.”

A few near the front nodded, murmuring “Yes, lord,” because such words were expected.
The rest only watched with hollow eyes.

Then the wind shifted—from the west, the direction of renewal, where the souls of the dead sail to rest.
It came as a whisper through the oak’s leaves, speaking a language older than Rome.
Out of that breath came a trembling of wings.

A flock of waxwings fluttered down—gold and gray, hundreds of them—filling the branches above him.
They plucked the acorns and passed them beak to beak, each taking one, each giving one, until the whole tree shimmered with motion and sharing.
Someone began to hum a forbidden refrain, softly at first, then joined by others—the song of the circle unbroken.

The Roman kept speaking, but his voice was only wind in the leaves.
Our eyes had turned upward, following the birds, knowing the sign:
the old ways were stirring, and the wheel was beginning to turn again.

November 25, 2025 at 11:44 AM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Remy Michaels

@remyscameraeye.bsky.social

Those Eyes... He's awake!! Early evening. Felix The Fox, looking very alert and refreshed, after an afternoon siesta. He's even sticking his tongue out at me. Sly fox. It was time for his evening hunt. Very handsome!!
🦊📸🇨🇦
#Fox #Mammals #Nature #Wildlife #WildlifePhotography #OntarioParks #Canada

November 24, 2025 at 11:14 PM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Mairead D

@maireadd100.bsky.social

#Photography
#EastCoastKin
#MacroMonday
#Leaf

A close-up image of a multi-coloured fall leaf.

November 24, 2025 at 10:55 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

Male Northern Cardinal perched in dark branches above a frosty meadow in Frederick County, MD.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #Cardinal

Folks still tell about Jesse Harless and Eli Tate down by Iron Gate Lake near Galax. Jesse was a mill-hand, kind but poor. Eli owned the store and kept the books in his head, sharp as a tack. They’d traded on credit for years—feed, nails, flour—until one winter Jesse’s work dried up and a debt grew between them.

What started as talk turned to threats. By midsummer 1911, it was pride that kept them arguing. One thick evening, Eli rode down to the lake where Jesse was fixing his boat. He brought his shotgun, “just to hold,” he’d say later. Bad thing was, Jesse had a rifle in the boat, and soon they faced each other on the stony shore, the sun setting red behind the trees.

They had it out there, each blaming the other, shouting above the wind from a storm that was rising dark over the mountain. Their voices boomed over the water until it was hard to tell who was shouting what.

Then it happened.

Jesse’s daughter Annie had been gathering kindling in the woods. Hearing her father’s voice, she came back cautious and stepped on a branch that cracked too loud. Eli turned quick, and Jesse saw the trouble. He lunged to put himself between the gun and his daughter.

When the smoke lifted, Jesse lay twisted in the shallows, his rifle beside him.

Eli stood frozen while the girl screamed. He dropped his gun and ran to help, but it was too late. Jesse was gone.

From that day on, Eli worked from dawn to dark to pay his guilt. He paid every debt Jesse had owed and made sure Annie and her mother never wanted for anything. He sold his store and spent the rest of his life in hard labor—poor and hollow.

They say summer never comes to the place where Jesse fell. The trees are always bare and the air stays cold, even in August. Nobody goes there, but one fisherman told of drifting into that cove and finding the branches full of bright red cardinals. Their eyes, he said, burned with the shameful question whispered on the wind:

“Is your quarrel really worth the winter it’ll bring?”

November 24, 2025 at 11:39 AM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Hourly Foxes

@foxes.hourly.media

November 21, 2025 at 5:20 PM

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Nicole Adams 🇺🇦 ❌👑🐸

@blathin384.bsky.social

I can’t help it… here’s another one for #FoxFriday

This little fella was just adorable 🥰
Bombay Hook NWR, 1 November 2025

#EastCoastKin #PhotographersUnited #photography #Wildlife #WildlifePhotography

Photo, almost a portrait, of a red fox looking a bit sideways and not fully into the camera. The fox has a curious, almost mischievous, look on its face.

November 22, 2025 at 1:15 AM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Wildlife

@worldwildlife.bsky.social

Red Fox (Vulpes vulpes) by Beryl Johnson 🦊 #RedFox #fox #wildlife #nature #mammal #foxes #foxoftheday

November 22, 2025 at 3:05 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

White-throated Sparrow perched upon a downy goldenrod seed head, feasting on the tiny fruits at the end of each silken thread.

#birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #sparrows #EastCoastKin

When the last purple iron weed faded away and the fields went brown and dry, a sparrow began to worry. Winter would soon seal the earth, and he had no storehouse. Spotting a chipmunk busy with his burrows, the sparrow fluttered down.

“Friend, you’re strong and quick, but I know seeds and seasons,” he said. “Let’s join forces. I’ll gather what we plant, and you shall plant what I gather. Come autumn, we’ll share fairly — I’ll take the tops, and you take the roots.”

The chipmunk thought this sounded just. So all summer they worked: the sparrow collecting millet and goldenrod seed, the chipmunk burying it neatly row by row. When the fields turned gold, the sparrow feasted among the nodding heads while the chipmunk dug up stringy roots and chewed bitterness.

“You’ve tricked me,” Chipmunk grumbled, but the sparrow only tilted his head. “Next time you may choose the parts.”

When spring returned, the chipmunk said, “This year I’ll have the tops, and you the roots.” The sparrow agreed at once. He brought him a bag of green peanuts, and together they planted from dawn to dusk. Through summer the chipmunk watched sturdy leaves unfurl and thought himself wise at last.

But when frost came and the stalks withered, he found the earth riddled with buried pods, and the sparrow cracking shells in triumph. “Peanuts ripen underground,” the little bird said gently. “You should have known your crop.”

The chipmunk’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. All winter he gnawed dry twigs while the sparrow slept warm and full.

When spring came again, the sparrow called, “Shall we plant once more?”

“Never,” said the chipmunk. “I’ll gather my own acorns, dig my own holes, and live on what I store. You are clever, but I’ll eat better if I stick with tradition.”

The sparrow chuckled and flew off to find another partner.

November 21, 2025 at 11:44 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A Hermit Thrush 🪶 among the branches of a winter maple, bathed in the first rays of an early sunset.

#birds #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #HermitThrush #EastCoastKin

The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

November 20, 2025 at 11:33 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

Yellow-rumped Warbler 🪶 among the golden late-autumn blossoms of a witch-hazel tree.

#birds #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #warblers #EastCoastKin #WitchHazel

In the tender frosty green of early spring, a pair of Yellow-rumped Warblers built a nest in an old witch-hazel tree. Its bark was smooth and silver, its roots deep in the earth, and buds adorned every branch. The birds wove a nest of grass and moss in a sun-caught crook, hidden from sight. Five eggs rested within, pale as pearls, but only one stirred and cracked. A single chick emerged—tiny, shivering, and fragile. The witchhazel felt his hunger, drank from the soil, and sent its strength upward, unfurling leaves to shield him as the sun grew hotter.

Summer hummed with life: insects drifted through the humid air, and the forest bloomed. The fledgling learned his strength in that season. He hopped along the branches, fluttered between blossoms, and found in the witchhazel a patient teacher. Its flowers called the flies and moths he hunted; its leaves fattened the caterpillars that fed him. Each day he flew farther, yet always returned to the same branch—the rhythm of bark and shade became his world.

When autumn deepened, the forest filled with voices: warblers gathering, bright yellow and olive, speaking of southern forests draped in moss. The young bird trembled with wonder and one night he followed their song into the sky. The witchhazel watched him vanish and, in the hush that followed, grew lonely. As frost crept through the ridges and other trees stood bare, it drew the last warmth from the soil and blossomed again—gold ribbons of fire in a gray wood.

Days passed, and word of its beauty spread. Cardinals, sparrows, and bluebirds came to rest among its branches like bright ornaments. Yet the witchhazel missed its friend. Then one still morning, it felt the faint touch of tiny feet. The warbler had returned early, feathers tipped with gold along wings and crown—a tribute to the tree that had sheltered him. He would stay through the winter, foraging what he could from the quiet, snowy meadows, keeping the witchhazel company through the long hush of the cold.

November 19, 2025 at 11:34 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A Belted Kingfisher holds a Bluegill caught moments earlier in the shallows of a quiet pond in Frederick County, Maryland.

#birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #BeltedKingfisher #EastCoastKin

Adapted from an old Blackfoot legend: Long ago, when the world was young and snow lay deep across the plains, Old Man walked beside Wolf, teaching him to hunt. But the cold bit hard, and for days they caught no meat. Distracted by his hunger, Old Man grumbled to the wind, his breath white against the sky. Wolf’s ears drooped, the lessons lost to complaint.

One afternoon they came to a wide river sealed in ice. Four Otters slid across the frozen surface. Wolf’s eyes lit with hunger and he began to chase them.

“Wait,” said Old Man. “The river hides air holes, run too fast and you’ll fall through.”

But Wolf, eager to prove himself, leapt away. The Otters vanished beneath the ice, and Wolf, running full speed, slipped and plunged after them. The current swept him beneath the white sheet of water, and silence closed behind him.

Old Man stood alone on the bank. The wind stung his eyes, and his tears were bitter. He had spoken of patience but had grumbled and complained, and now his favorite pupil was gone beneath the ice.

Downstream he found open water and knelt, weeping into the current, but Wolf did not reappear. Above him sat Kingfisher, bright and sharp-eyed, hunting for fish. Hearing Old Man’s cry echo across the valley, the bird laughed his quick, chattering call.

Old Man looked up, first startled, then angry. “You mock my sorrow?” he shouted, and hurled his war club toward the bird.

By instinct, Kingfisher darted, a streak of blue and white. The club grazed his head, lifting his feathers upright into a dark headdress. In that instant, Old Man saw the truth: the bird’s laughter was not cruelty but instinct.

“Little brother,” said Old Man softly, “your grace has taught what my hunger forgot. Wear your feathers high, so the people remember: joy must live beside respect, and instinct beside wisdom.”

This is how the Kingfisher got his headdress and he has worn it proudly to this day.

November 18, 2025 at 11:40 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

Male Eastern Bluebird flares his wings to take flight out of a Bittersweet thicket where he was feeding. Frederick County, MD.

#birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #EasternBluebirds #EastCoastKin

The Last Word of a Bluebird.

Robert Frost 1874 – 1963

As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said, “Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Lesley (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the stars bright
And made ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-by,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax—
And do everything!
And perhaps in the spring
He would come back and sing.”

November 17, 2025 at 11:32 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A Blue Jay pausing for a drink at the edge of a woodland pond. Frederick County, MD.

#Birds 🪶 #Birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #StunDay #EastCoastKin

An old Chinook legend from the lower Columbia River country tells of a day when Fox, Coyote, and Jay met on the road.

“How are you, Coyote?” asked Fox.
“Hungry,” Coyote sighed.
Jay fluttered down from a branch and preened his feathers. “You’re always hungry,” he teased.
Fox laughed. “Plenty of wagons pass here, full of food. I have a trick—watch me.”

Fox lay down in the road, pretending to be dead. Soon a man came along with a wagon full of supplies. Seeing Fox stretched out, he said, “What fine fur—I'll take him and sell the skin.” He tossed Fox into the wagon. Once inside, Fox ate until he was full, then jumped out and ran back to show the others. “See me, Coyote? I’m full. Do what I did.”

Jay fluffed his wings and said, “Wait—my turn.” He soared high, then swooped down, folding his wings at the last moment so it looked like he’d crashed against the next wagon. The driver saw the blue feathers and cried, “A beauty! These will fetch a fine price for ladies’ hats.” He scooped Jay up and tossed him into the wagon.

Jay stayed still until the man looked away, then pecked open a sack of grain and ate his fill. When the wagon stopped, he flew out the back, scattering kernels and laughing as he went.

At last Coyote tried the trick himself. He lay down in the road and waited. Soon another man came driving by, spotted him, and shouted, “You won’t trick me again like you did yesterday!” He jumped down, beat Coyote with a stick, and sent him running off howling and hungry.

Later Coyote was licking his wounds. “That’s the oldest trick in the book,” he grumbled, “but I thought someone might be enough of a sucker to fall for it twice.” Fox grinned and opened a small bundle. Inside was bread and dried meat. Jay hopped closer with a beak full of grain. “We saved some for you,” said Fox. Coyote’s eyes brightened, and the three of them ate together beside the road.

When they’d finished, Jay flicked his tail and laughed. “We knew you’d already tried every trick in the book.”

November 16, 2025 at 3:22 PM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Victoria

@burrddoh.bsky.social

Went for a waterfall; fell in love with a puddle
#Stunday #OrangeSun #EastCoastKin #Autumn #NaturePhotography

Autumn leaves in a puddle reflecting the forest - TN 2025

November 16, 2025 at 1:21 PM

Reposted by OMPhotos

PacBirds

@pacbirds.bsky.social

Northern Pintail taking off for the #DucksOutOfWater theme of #BirdOfTheDay.

#birds #photography #birdphotography #birding #nature #wildlife

Large duck with long tail taking off from the water, water drops are falling off it.

November 13, 2025 at 12:53 PM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Vicky Outen Photo DPAGB

@vickyoutenphoto.bsky.social

Treecreeper

linktr.ee/vickyouten...

🪶🦉 #birds #wildlife #ukwildlife #nature #photography #ThePhotoHour #vickyoutenphoto #treecreeper

November 15, 2025 at 8:00 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A White-breasted Nuthatch prepares to dive into #Flyday, eyes fixed upon the weekend foraging for late-autumn insects in the sun-washed forest.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #EastCoastKin

Long ago, before the rivers found their voices, the people forgot how to walk in balance. They leaned too far toward the light, or too far toward the dark. Their hearts grew heavy with wanting, and the trees bent with them, unsure which way to grow.

The elders called to the forest for a teacher, and from the great oak came a small bird — White-breasted Nuthatch, quick as breath, soft as the sound of a seed dropping. She climbed the trunk headfirst, upside-down, her tail pressed to the bark.

The people laughed. “Little one, you have lost your way.”

But the bird only answered, “No, I am seeing both sides.”

She showed them that healing does not come from standing still, but from turning — from seeing the world as a circle, not a line.

When they watched her, they learned: to begin again each morning without bitterness; to use what is near at hand, even small things, and make them sacred; to hide their most precious hopes where noise cannot reach them; to trust the help of others, yet keep their own rhythm.

And when the healers sang for balance, they whispered her prayer: Let me see as the nuthatch sees, turning the world to make it whole.

The people began to walk more gently. The trees straightened. The rivers remembered their paths.

Even now, when you hear that little tap-tap on the pine, know she is still at her work — walking the tree both ways, reminding us to change our view, to begin again, and to look with both eyes.

November 14, 2025 at 11:48 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A Song Sparrow peers through the gray mist of an early autumn morning, standing sentry while the flock below feasts on grass and thistle seed.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #sparrow

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

A little bird, with plumage brown,
Beside my window flutters down,
A moment chirps its little strain,
Ten taps upon my window–pane,
And chirps again, and hops along,
To call my notice to its song;
But I work on, nor heed its lay,
Till, in neglect, it flies away.

So birds of peace and hope and love
Come fluttering earthward from above,
To settle on life’s window–sills,
And ease our load of earthly ills;
But we, in traffic’s rush and din
Too deep engaged to let them in,
With deadened heart and sense plod on,
Nor know our loss till they are gone.

November 13, 2025 at 11:48 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

White-throated Sparrow, balanced on a thin late-autumn branch — its gold and gray plumage mirrored in the fading leaves and quiet, tired meadows.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #sparrows #WhiteThroatedSparrow

Fujiwara no Sanekata, a court poet of the Heian era, was known for his wit, beauty, and vanity — and for his strange devotion to sparrows. In a world where every gesture at court was a poem, he found in those small birds the one thing that answered him without pretense.

They gathered outside his residence in Kyoto each dawn, flickering through the mist like living brushstrokes. Sanekata scattered rice before them, whispering verses as if to lovers: “Little messengers of morning, what secret stirs your wings?” The courtiers teased him, saying his heart had flown from the palace to the trees. Yet he called them his consolation in an age of ceremony.

When he was exiled to distant Michinoku for a quarrel at court, he carried a sparrow in a bamboo cage on the long road north. There, amid reed marshes and the cries of cranes, he released it — but each evening he left a handful of rice on his veranda, certain it would return. He wrote, “In the voice of a sparrow, I hear the city I have lost.”

Legend says that in the final year of his life, the sparrows did return — hundreds of them, crowding the eaves of his hut in a storm. When attendants entered the next morning, they found Sanekata seated by the window, brush fallen from his hand, the ink still wet. Outside, the sparrows chattered as if reading his last poem aloud.

In old Kyoto, people still say that sparrows linger near poets’ homes because they once listened to Sanekata’s verses — small keepers of memory, carrying fragments of an exile’s voice across the centuries.

November 12, 2025 at 11:36 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

Female Dark-eyed Junco in soft winter plumage. Early arrival to Frederick County, Maryland.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #photography #junco

Each year, when the last embers of autumn burn low, winter rises above the horizon as a gray dove. Her wings unfold across the sky and blanket the hills and meadows with silence and peace — a crystalline sheen of frost, the faint threads of an icy breeze. In the high air the clouds grow heavy, the scent of snow sharpens, and then her feathers begin to drift down: pure and white, a peaceful covering that smooths the world into quiet solitude.

As her heralds come the small charcoal birds, reminders of the embers that rekindle the winter hearth on cold December mornings. They perch in the pines, gather in flocks, and a handful of millet will draw them in droves. Shining black eyes, buffy backs, and slate hoods above pure white breasts — their beaks a soft, subtle pink. These are the juncos, the birds of winter, wings fanning in the crisp, cold air to replace the last humid breath of autumn.

November 11, 2025 at 11:46 AM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Adrian Limani

@adrianlimani.bsky.social

Colors 🍂🍁
#naturephotography #Photography #Nature #PhotoOfTheDay #PhotographyLovers #LandscapeLovers #FineArtPhotography

November 10, 2025 at 8:10 PM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

Male Downy Woodpecker on the roof of my shed in the light of a golden November sunrise.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephtotgraphy #downy #woodpecker

Long ago, the world often forgot to wake. The nights would stretch too far, and the dawn would hesitate beyond the hills, unsure of its place. The rivers grew cold, the trees shivered, and even the wind seemed to lose its way. Among all the creatures, it was the Downy Woodpecker who could not bear the silence. He flew to the tallest tree above the river and began to strike the bark again and again, his beak ringing like a drum. With each blow, a thin seam of light split the horizon, and the sky slowly began to breathe.

The others heard him and stirred — frogs lifting their voices, insects tuning their wings, the people opening their eyes to the bright crack of a new day. They say that since then, the Downy has kept the same promise: each morning he tests the strength of the dawn. If the world grows weary, he will wake it again.

His crimson crest glows with the color of that first sunrise, and his tapping still carries through mist and fog like a heartbeat beneath the clouds. To some, it’s just a bird at work, hunting grubs in the bark. But to those who listen closely, it is a reminder that light never returns on its own — it needs a call, a keeper, a steady rhythm.

So when the woodpecker greets the dawn each morning, pause. Let the sound roll through the quiet places inside you. He is striking the edge of darkness, making sure the day still knows its way home.

November 10, 2025 at 11:54 AM

OMPhotos

@120minute.bsky.social

A Cooper’s Hawk, perched above a pond, just after sunrise. There was a small flock of sparrows at the edge of the water that he was locked onto with blood-red eyes.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #raptor #hawk

A Cooper’s Hawk perches at the edge of a pond at dawn. Charcoal feathers catch the faint light before spreading silently into flight. He patrols the forest margin, eyes burning like embers as they rake the thickets and grasses for motion. From his tucked yellow legs extend talons sharp as razors, curved to pierce and hold. Then, from high above, he drops like a bullet, the air folding around him. A sparrow bursts upward, only to be seized on the wing, and swept away. A dark, silent shadow claims his share from last year’s brood.

November 10, 2025 at 1:07 AM

Reposted by OMPhotos

Mike Henry

@onlyveesaz.bsky.social

Ubiquitous to the area and always causing trouble- California Scrub Jay

November 8, 2025 at 6:19 PM

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