The Kingfisher
We’re resting at the fishing pond at Bur-Mil park after a bike ride on the greenway. Sliding turtles sunbathe on logs jutting out of the water. A great blue heron wades among the reeds, then stands perfectly still. Two wood ducks glide over the pond, pausing in a small inlet to dip their heads under the water. A kinglet flitters in the branches of a pine tree above my head, calling ze-zeet, and I wonder how such a tiny bird can make so much noise.
I’m enjoying the sun, watching the turtles, when a bird barrels beak-first into the pond, a flash of silver and blue as the splashing water catches the sunlight. Then it bird flies in a zig-zag pattern making a wild, rattling call. It perches on a tree branch over the water, keeping an eye out for another fish.
It’s only the second time this year I’ve seen a kingfisher at Bur-Mil.
Kingfishers are pigeon-sized birds with large heads that range from Alaska east across southern Canada and throughout most of the United States. They nest at the end of an unlined chamber dug in the bank, laying five to eight white eggs.
A kingfisher makes an appearance in Ernest Hemingway’s “Big Two-Hearted River,” flying over a trout stream. The story takes place in the forests of northern Michigan a year or two after Nick Adams returns from the horrors of World War I. My brother, an English teacher at a high school in Baltimore, tells me the kingfisher is a symbol of renewal.
And, yes, I can’t help but feel optimistic as I watch the kingfisher swoop across the pond at Bur-Mil, then fly off into the trees, the tinny rattle of its call carrying across the water.

Oh, Deer

Almost every week during summer and early fall, the rehab center gets calls about injured or orphaned fawns.
The center doesn’t have a fawn rehabilitation permit issued by the state to care for fawns, and so we refer people to one of the handful of rehabilitators across the state.
But most times, fawns don’t need rescued. People often seeing them sitting quietly all alone, and assume they’ve been abandoned. Most likely, the mother is off foraging and will return to the fawn. The best course of action is to walk away. The mother won’t return if a human’s nearby.
But if a fawn’s injured, call a licensed fawn rehabilitator. The North Carolina Department of Wildlife Resources keeps a list on its Web site: http://www.ncwildlife.org/fs_index_06_coexist.htm

"An Unnatural History"
In June 1935, 101 cane toads were delivered to a town in North Queensland, Australia, in the belief they would eliminate the greybeetle, which was threatening the sugar cane crop.
Problem was, the beetles could fly; the cane toads couldn’t. Beetles were only in the field when the sugar cane was high; the toads couldn’t reach them.
The toads might have been a failure at controlling pests, but they were successful in another area: breeding. Within six months, there were an estimated 60,000 toads in Australia’s sugar-producing regions.
A few weeks ago, we watched “Cane Toads – An Unnatural History,” a 1987 documentary that tells the story of the cane toad from every angle imaginable. The cane toad is shown in all its glory, mating in the middle of the road, hopping across doorsteps at night, gulping down a mouse, or being used by a toddler as a toy.
Mark Lewis, who directed the film, employs a great deal of humor, relying on simple, plain spoken residents who have strong feelings about the venomous creature: They either love them or they hate them.
Most of all, “An Unnatural History” is a cautionary tale of what can happen when humans meddle with the environment by introducing non-native animals and plants.