Indigo Bunting

Every May we look forward to the arrival of the beautiful Indigo Bunting.  I first discovered them many years ago when I lived in Stoughton Wisconsin.  Every May 8th I would look out the picture window in mid morning and there they were.  They may have been there other times, but on this date I could always count on seeing them.  It was a brief visit, but very memorable.  Since we have moved to Princeton, we see more and more every year.  I think the population is probably increasing.  They stay for a few weeks, but then they move on.  I don't know if they nest in our area.  I am learning their behavior but there is a lot I don't know about them.  They are sometimes called a Blue Canary because they sing and are about the same size.  I read that Indigo Buntings have no blue pigment; they are actually black, but the diffraction of light through the feathers makes them appear blue.  I don't know if that is true.  They sure look blue to me.  The females are the same shape and size but they are very drab in comparison.  This is true for many of the bird species.  I tried to get a good photo of the female but she is very camera shy.  Poor baby, her husband is much more photogenic. 

I have included some Indigo Bunting photos in previous blog posts, but today I'm posting a few more.  Every six months, I make a book of my blog.  It is my way of documenting our life for future generations.  I have a feeling we will look pretty backward and primitive to future generations.  I wish I had more information about the everyday life of my grandparents and great grandparents.

I found this poem on a free poetry site.  It is http://www.poetryexplorer.net/

THE INDIGO BIRD, by AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD       

WHEN I see
High on the tip-top twig of a tree,
Something blue by the breezes stirred,
But so far up that the blue is blurred,
So far up that no green leaf flies
'Twixt its blue and the blue of the skies,
Then I know, ere a note be heard,
That is naught but the Indigo bird.

Blue in the branch and blue in the sky,
And naught between but the breezes high,
And naught so blue by the breezes stirred
As the deep, deep blue of the Indigo bird.

When I hear
A song like a bird laugh, blithe and clear,
As though of some airy jest he had heard
The last and the most delightful word,
A laugh as fresh in the August haze
As it was in the full-voiced April days,
Then I know that my heart is stirred
By the laugh-like song of the Indigo bird.

Joy in the branch and joy in the sky,
And naught between but the breezes high;
And naught so glad on the breezes heard
As the gay, gay note of the Indigo bird.