Yesterday, I found a woodcock roosting in the brushy edge of our sheep pasture. It’s been years since I’ve seen one there. We used to hear them every spring as kids, but they lost their favorite field several years ago, and they’ve been slow to return. They are quite particular about where they choose to spend the summer, so I am very pleased we made the grade. They need brushy pastures for roosting, young forests for nesting, moist woodlands for feeding and fields for courtship.

In late spring, after the peepers wind down and well before the cicadas start serenading, I instinctively listen for the male’s call. Birding experts quaintly refer to it as the “woodcock’s peent,” but I think it sounds more like a monosyllabic nasally Russian ‘nyet!’.

My parents instilled in us a great love for woodcocks and especially the male’s funky, albeit very successful, courtship display. What greatness he clearly lacks in melodic beauty, he more than compensates for with the bravado and enthusiasm of his “sky dance.” Just before sunset, we’d all sit quietly (or as quietly as 5 kids can sit) and wait for the dance to begin, while my parents drank a glass of whatever it was that parents drank.

The woodcock starts the show on the ground, just as daylight begins to fade, with ten to twenty peents and then, as if shot out of a cannon, he rockets skyward in ever ascending spirals. A couple hundred feet in the air and almost out of sight, he pauses and then plummets groundward, as if mortally wounded, leveling out dramatically at the last minute, and landing safely, only to start it all over again.

Even when he’s alone foraging for worms, it seems he dances to his own beat. Stepping one foot forward, and another step back, his rhythmic movements presumably make vibrations which cause the earthworms to instinctively move away, thus revealing their location. His long bill easily spears into the mud, extracting his prey. His foraging stutter step might be perfectly logical to adults, but to us kids it sure looked like he was line dancing to a Country Western tune. We imitated him endlessly and could always get my mom to laugh when we, wherever we happened to be, broke into an impromptu woodcock dance.

The male, having chosen our pasture as his territory, will attract several females to spend the summer with us. They will hopefully return each year to dance, breed, lay their eggs and raise their young.

Our regenerative farming style of pasturing in the woods, and having trees in our pastures, provides them with the habitat they need. I don’t know what the sheep or chickens think but I for one am very happy to share the pasture with them, and I hope that they know they will always be welcomed.

Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

We have been weaning our bottle-fed lambs, which is a long, loud, and annoying process. We have them in the pasture closest to our house so we can keep an eye on them and make sure they are making the transition okay. The lambs happily go about their independent lives until they hear our voices, or see us walking by, then the bellowing and the hoof stamping begins. They clearly have no intention of being weaned.

Watching their histrionics, we could easily be convinced that they were on the verge of starvation - if only we hadn’t just witnessed them happily racing around the pasture playing and spending hours contentedly grazing by themselves. When I can, I walk the long way around our house to avoid being seen and stirring up their thunderous complaints.

The front of the house, though, has been taken over by a robin who built a nest on the transom over our front door. The porch roof provides her with excellent protection from rain and predators, but she now takes issue with us using that door. She has two hatchlings, of which she is understandably protective, so we are constantly being divebombed and scolded by her unless we remember to use a different door.

Our bluebird hatchlings in the back yard are doing well, and we do our best to not disturb those parents as well.

Happily, we have a third door, which is out of sight from the lambs, and far enough from the robin, and bluebirds that we can use it unmolested and guilt free. We do however have to be sure to keep that screen door firmly latched since one of our more demanding chickens has discovered that if it’s open, she can often find me somewhere within.

It has been an absolutely wonderful spring, and we are so incredibly lucky to live somewhere we can watch it unfold all around us. However, we are running out of doors, and it is quite possible that if this summer is a continuation of this spring, we will soon be climbing in and out of windows just to gain access to our house without disrupting the clan.

Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

The poem begins “Hope springs eternal in the human breast”- but really, it’s springtime where hope truly dwells.

· A pregnant ewe heading to the barn, looking for a quiet place to lamb.

· A handful of seeds scattered in the wind - searching for fertile ground.

· A honeybee coming out of our empty hive, perhaps scouting it out before a swarm.

· A broody hen sitting on her nest, threatening me whenever I dare walk by.

· The serenading of lovesick frogs, desperately looking for a mate.

· A clutch of eggs in the robin’s nest by our door.

· Our boisterous bottle-fed lamb - on the verge of being weaned.

· A pair of bluebirds, and their hatchlings getting ready to fledge.

· The return of the swifts nesting in our chimney yet again.

· Our sow looking more and more pregnant every day.

Everything is in a holding pattern, waiting perhaps for a gentle rain, the warmth of the sun or just the right time, to bring it all to fruition. Springtime, indeed, holds eternal hope within a farmer’s soul! And where there is hope, there’s comfort and joy.

Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.