© Pablo Hernan Capovilla; Iguazú, Misiones, Argentina; 18 Jul 2019

The branch was dry and bare, the thorns long and spaced just unevenly enough to look accidental. One of them curved sharply upward, catching the soft light from the open lawn. The Carib Grackle was perched low on the cross-branch, body angled, head tilted, eyes set forward. Most of its form was in shadow—black on black—but its pale bill caught a faint glint of colour, and the eye shone with that sharpness these birds always carry. The larger vertical branch sliced the frame in half, quiet but unavoidable. It wasn’t in the way, exactly. Just part of where the bird had landed. I’d been sitting on the veranda, tracing the southern lawn with my lens, panning slowly along the bougainvillea. The grackle came in quickly—landed, settled, then shifted once. I moved too. Stepped lightly, leaned forward, watched for that clean sight line that never really came. I fired off two frames before it flew—no warning, no stretch of wings—just gone, slipping behind the wall into the neighbour’s garden. It wasn’t my first time seeing this bird. I’d seen another earlier in the week, walking across the short grass just next door. The mower had passed through recently, and the bird seemed to know that meant easier pickings. A quick dart forward, a peck, then pause. Efficient. Later, on the Saturday we arrived in Port Elizabeth, I spotted a pair—male and female—moving through the scrub between houses near the dock. Always in motion. Never quite still long enough for a proper photograph. This one, though—this brief moment on the thorned vine—was the clearest I’ve managed. It wasn’t ideal. The branch divides the frame. The light isn’t quite what I wanted. But still. It’s the best I have of the Carib Grackle so far. And sometimes you just have to hold onto what you get. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife Backyard BirdingBirdingBirding LiferBirds of the CaribbeanCarib GrackleDorsetshire HillIsland BirdsLesser AntillesLifer BirdQuiscalus lugubrisSaint VincentTropical BirdsWindward Islands

The morning softened as I stepped onto the verandah, coffee in hand, light just catching the edges of the terracotta tiles. Before I could settle into the quiet, something green darted across the floor like a streak of living paint. A Saint Vincent Bush Anole—again. I’d seen them every morning since arriving, and each time they surprised me, as if the first. They were everywhere. On the walls, skittering across leaves, basking on the floor tiles. More common than squirrels in New Jersey, and just as curious. Their brilliant green flanks shimmered with a bluish iridescence that caught the morning sun like a signal flare. One paused long enough for me to photograph it, frozen mid-step with limbs splayed wide, a tiny sentinel of the veranda. I never saw them fight or posture—just a scurry here, a pause there, a life lived in quick bursts between shade and heat. The regularity of their presence gave them the quality of house spirits, flickering through the morning stillness. I made my way down the steps to the lawn below the veranda. That’s where the life really was—bustling and quick. Clinging to the lichen-splotched wall bordering the yard, was a Brown Anole—darker, earth-toned, rougher around the edges. It watched me with angular suspicion before darting behind a bougainvillaea stem. I snapped a few frames. Its pattern, while less brilliant than its cousin’s, was richly detailed—bands and mottles, tail nearly the length of its body. This species, introduced to the Caribbean from Cuba and the Bahamas, has made itself thoroughly at home, adapting quickly to urban edges and garden walls. Opportunistic insectivores, they’ll take whatever small prey they can catch, including ants, spiders, and even smaller lizards. Brown Anole (Anolis sagrei) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 Just then, a flicker of movement higher up on the wall. I turned and caught my breath—a bird, compact and olive-brown, perched like a punctuation mark atop the concrete. A Black-faced Grassquit. A lifer. She—judging by her overall duller plumage—hopped twice, then froze, head cocked, feathers fluffed slightly against the breeze. It was my best look yet. Her plumage was subtle but not plain, a nuanced blend of olive and ash, with dark lores and a firm, seed-cracking bill. She turned her head again and dropped onto the wall, pecking at invisible seeds or insects. And then she was gone—replaced moments later by another. One after another, Grassquits came and went, each one pausing briefly to forage or scout from the ledge. It was like a quiet relay, a rhythm of arrivals and departures on that sunlit stretch of concrete. Some were plainer, others hinted at the darker tones of the males, but all shared that same alert posture, that same flick of energy wrapped in feathers. Grassquits are granivores primarily, but they’ll happily take the odd invertebrate. Native to the region, they are a familiar feature in grassy clearings and gardens, where they forage close to the ground or perch low to sing. I never saw a male that morning—their jet-black faces and sharper contrasts are hard to miss—but the females had their own quiet charisma. More studied, less flashy, but no less captivating. I lingered for a while longer, soaking in the moment. Black-faced Grassquit (Melanospiza bicolor) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 405.6 mm · f/8.0 She gave me a brief but riveting performance—head tilts, cautious hops, a fluttering half-jump before vanishing below the wall. I didn’t see her mate, though the males wear a darker, more striking plumage: jet-black faces, sharper contrast, bold lines. This female had her own quiet charisma, more studied, less flashy, but no less captivating. I lingered for a while longer, soaking in the moment. Eventually, I made my way back up to the veranda. No sooner had I sat down than a flash of movement in the soursop tree caught my attention. A Lesser Antillean Bullfinch had flown into the branches, and it was not shy about letting me know. It chirped and chattered excitedly, almost as if scolding me. Its posture was upright and defensive, wings half-lifted. At the time, I just laughed—but later, I realised there was likely a nest tucked somewhere in the leaves. Its behaviour made perfect sense in hindsight. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife Anole LizardBackyard BirdingBirding LiferBlack-faced GrassquitBrown AnoleBush AnoleCaribbean BirdsDorsetshire HillGarden WildlifeMorning EncounterNative BirdsSaint VincentSaint Vincent WildlifeSmall WondersTropical GardenTropical LizardsVerandah