OMPhotos

Good idea. Hope you didn’t get stranded.

Nice!

😂 Ouch!

Beautiful!

Great bird! Very uncommon here.

Excellent image!

Eye to Eye - White-tailed deer
Walton Woods, Amherst, NY
December 18, 2025

Also visit: www.instagram.com/wildlife.exposures

#OM-1MarkII #OM-1 #photography #wildlifephotography #nature #photographersunited #animalphotography #portrait
#naturephotography #winterwildlife #deer #white-tailed #buck

Rough. That’s a lot of work. A friend of mine in Dallas said the forecast for Christmas is 75 degrees. I’d rather have snow! ❄️⛄️😄

The Carolina Chickadee is a small bird with a big voice. It has a black cap and chin, a white cheek and a buffy tan breast. It is rarely silent for long. Chickadees live in tight winter flocks, and their voices hold those groups together as they move through thickets and woodland edges. Recent research has shown that chickadee calls are far more complex than they first appear. The familiar “chick-a-dee” call is not a single alarm sound, but a flexible system made up of distinct note types arranged in patterns. Chickadees vary these patterns depending on context, especially when responding to predators. Calls with more “dee” notes tend to signal higher threat levels, and other chickadees—and even different bird species—respond accordingly. Scientists have also found that chickadees are sensitive to the structure of their calls. When researchers play back calls that break the usual ordering of notes, chickadees respond differently, suggesting that the sequence itself carries meaning. This kind of structured communication has led biologists to describe chickadee calls as “language-like,” not because they form sentences, but because arrangement and repetition matter. Chickadee calls are heard and interpreted by many other birds, making them a kind of public warning system in winter forests. Nuthatches, woodpeckers, and other species listen closely, using chickadee calls to assess danger and opportunity. In this way, chickadees help organize a whole winter community through sound.

Carolina Chickadee serving as lookout for his flock, which was foraging noisily in the low thicket beneath him. #birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Chickadees

Thank you for the feedback and sorry about the late reply!

Thanks!

Thank you!

They’re on vacation down here in the warm South.

The Red-breasted Nuthatch is a small, restless bird. Its slate-blue back and warm rust-colored breast are set off by a bold white eyebrow and a sharp black eye line, giving it an alert, purposeful expression. It moves headfirst down trunks and along pine branches, probing bark crevices with quick, efficient motions, rarely staying still for long. In the conifer forests of the north, this is a familiar sight. Here in Maryland, it is uncommon. This winter, a poor cone crop across much of the northern boreal forest has pushed many seed-dependent birds south in search of food. Spruce and fir produced fewer cones than usual, leaving species like Red-breasted Nuthatches with little choice but to wander. Rather than migrating in the traditional sense, they disperse irregularly, following the availability of seeds and suitable habitat. This year, that path has led them into Mid-Atlantic pine woods, where the pines produced a better crop. What’s striking is how seamlessly these northern visitors have fit in. Red-breasted Nuthatches forage alongside the larger, resident White-breasted Nuthatches with little sign of conflict. Each species seems to occupy its own space, moving through the same trees without friction. It’s an easy coexistence, even though it’s unusual to see both species sharing winter woods here.

Red-breasted Nuthatch on a low branch of a pine. There’s an irruption in Maryland this year. Several of these uncommon birds have stayed for the winter. #birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography

A coyote sits in the tall grass. It is barely visible as it paused in a field.

Peek-a-boo.

Another older photo with added alt text. A coyote paused in a field partially hidden in the tall grass.

#coyote #peekaboo #canine #nature #wildlife #protectnature #photography #EastCoastKin

My grandmother used to say the mountains are never empty. She said the Plott Balsams listen before they speak, and they remember how you behave when you think no one is watching. She warned us about the Yunwi Tsunsdi, tiny spirits in the meadows, and told us if we ever heard them we should keep moving, eyes forward. Looking for them, she said, was how people got into trouble. They don’t like to be found. One winter morning I chased a small bird through trees along the ridge with my camera, trying to get an image. He was nervous and never stopped moving, stayed in cover. The bird soon dropped lower, into brush and tangled vines, and I followed him off the trail. That’s when I heard it: laughter, thin and sharp, slipping through the weeds without any wind to carry it. Not friendly laughter. Amused. Dry. Fading. I froze. My grandmother’s voice came back clear. Don’t look. Don’t answer. But the laughter moved, circling, staying just out of sight. I lifted the camera, heart pounding, convinced if I was careful I could catch some kind of proof. I crouched lower, crawling forward through the brush, my bare arms brushing leaves and vines as I went. The laughter shifted again, always ahead of me, never where I pointed the lens. Every time I thought I had them, they were somewhere else. That’s when I noticed the warbler again, perched calmly nearby, pecking at pale berries like none of this concerned him. Poison ivy berries. I looked down. My arms were already brushing red and green leaves, shiny and familiar. I understood then. They’d been leading me. In my distraction, I’d crawled right where they intended. The bird held still then, berry in beak, and gave me an image. Out of pity? The itching came later and stayed with me for weeks. Every time my arms burned, I shook my head and laughed. My grandmother told me exactly how it would go. The Yunwi Tsunsdi simply reminded me who was more clever — and who should have listened to the stories.

Yellow-rumped Warbler feeding on poison ivy berries. #birds 🪶 #birding #warblers #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography

A Portrait Of Beauty... Early evening. Coco The Eastern Coyote, going for a stroll in the snowy forest wilderness. She has an aura about her. I was honoured to be in her presence. Intelligent and gorgeous.
🐺📸🇨🇦
#EasternCoyote #Mammals #Nature
#Wildlife #WildlifePhotography #OntarioParks #Canada

A very small slate-gray bird with a white belly and tiny beak is perched on a bare tree branch in the late afternoon on a very cold, snowy autumn day. Towering above it is the blurred, blue bottom of the Anthony Wayne Bridge.

Dark-eyed Junco (Junco hyemalis), Middlegrounds Metropark, Toledo, Ohio, USA, December 2025. ©2025 #birds #nature #photography #naturephotography #toledo #ohio #autumn

A cluster of deep, pomegranate-red heavenly bamboo berries glows against a backdrop of soft green shadow, each one crowned with glassy ice from the storm. The crystals catch the pale winter light like tiny prisms, while the berries’ smooth skins are bright, warm fire beneath the cold ice.

Nandina berries, encrusted in crystalline ice from this weekend’s storm. Frederick County, MD.
#StunDay #EastCoastKin #Macro #MacroPhotography

Thanks! One of my favorite birds so I was happy to get the image.

Thank you! 😊

Love your work! ✨

Thanks! 🙏 Macro is new for me so I appreciate the feedback.

Thanks Susan!

Now drop the holt, and securely nail The horse-shoe over the door; 'T is a wise precaution, and if it should fail It never failed before. Folks downriver will talk your ear off about luck and tides and moon-phases, but up here we know better. The shad don’t come home on charts or calendars. They come because the Shad Spirit calls them — that speckled bird with gold under his wings and the flash of red on his neck, the one you see tapping on the cedars in the frosty spring mornings. I’ve watched him more years than I can rightly number. He comes riding in when the south wind shakes the foam at the Sound’s mouth, flying low over the water like an arrow loosed from an old hunter’s bow, straight and sure. And when the river is bright with dawn, you’ll see him skimming just above it — the whole surface turning silver under his shadow, as if the fish themselves were rising to follow. He’ll perch on driftwood or a rib of wreck and tap, steady as a shepherd calling his flock out of rough seas. But it’s his voice that turns the shad northward. Sometimes it’s a steady bark, sometimes a sharp and rolling laugh that tumbles along the wind. The fish know it; they’ve heard it since the first rivers ran. And they gather when he calls, lifted by a summons older than our stories. “How does he know the way he flew before?” you ask. Ah now, that’s an old marvel. But I’ve always said the bones of last year’s shad gleam pale on the shore, bright enough to guide him upriver. Even when the wind lies still, the water will turn white with the flock he’s driving before him, their backs flashing like the foam of a breaking wave. When the pork barrel’s low and the cider cask gone quiet, I’ve heard him tapping on my boat’s chine — telling me the lean days won’t last. So mind my words: when you see that flicker flying like a red blaze over the river, and hear his call dancing down the current, get your nets ready. For the Shad Spirit never passes without bringing a gift up the silver tide.

A Northern Flicker foraging for worms below a thin blanket of snowy leaves. #birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Woodpeckers #ShadSpirit #FlyDay #EastCoastKin

They say in these mountains that treasure has a long memory, and once it’s buried it calls out to whoever’s meant to find it. That’s how the story of Jacob Hensley begins, though he never meant to chase gold or listen to dreams. Years back, before Jacob was born, a mail coach was robbed on the ridge above Briar Hollow. The thief fled with two saddlebags of silver, a pocketful of rubies bound for a jeweler, and a velvet pouch of old rings. But he never made it out. He was shot dead by the coaching guard. The treasure vanished. Some said he buried it in haste. Others said the land swallowed it whole. Jacob paid old tales no mind, until the night he dreamed of a wooden chest beneath his pasture, coins shining in the moonlight. The dream came twice more. At last he said, “If the land’s speakin’, I’d best listen.” He took to dowsing. But couldn’t find a good pair of sticks. Nothing worked. Not oak or elm or birch. One cold November evening, with the hills purple in dusk and frost thin on the ground, Jacob walked the pasture’s edge feeling foolish. Then he saw it, a witch hazel tree, quiet as a keeper of secrets. Its golden petals were gone, but the green flower cups caught the last light. And the tree leaned forward, its branches drawn low as though the earth tugged at them. Jacob froze. They weren’t moving in the wind. They were pointing. He stepped toward the tree. The closer he came, the lower the forks dipped. “All right,” he murmured. “Show me.” He dug through leaf litter, then cold soil, then sand. His spade struck timber, old and blackened. It took an hour to raise the chest. When he pried it open, moonlight seemed to pour out: silver coins stacked like river stones, rubies glowing like embers, rings of gold and garnet, old Spanish dollars, and a watch engraved with a strange crest. Jacob came to be known as a man who could find things. And he’d tell you: Only witch hazel knows the unseen paths. Only witch hazel bends toward what the earth keeps hidden.

Chartreuse witch hazel flower cups suspended in cold violet twilight. #Macro #MacroPhotography

Thanks! 😊

Thanks Scarlett! Glad you liked the alt!! 😊

Thanks Rob!