Archives For bird


Mary Liz Ingram —  January 26, 2016 — 1 Comment
Tree full, ink doodle

Tree full, ink doodle

I cracked the window an inch,

letting in an icy draft

filled with the chattering of birds,

dotting the yards,

punctuating the trees.

The smallest movement sends them

flying in a blur.

Red-wing blackbirds, waxwings, grackles

cowbirds and red-breasted robins,

a congregation of busy, nervous feathers.

Cat comes running up the sidewalk,

her body alive with eagerness for a feast

if she can catch one.

No luck yet.

“I meant to do my work today but a brown bird sang in the apple tree…” -Richard Le Gallienne

Ready to goWhen you constantly create art, you eventually run out of room.

Time for a Summer Art Sale!

The pieces below are marked down for the next 2 weeks only, July 31-August 14.

Pastels, ink doodles, framed, unframed…there are lots of options. Some of them are my favorites, and they would love to find a home on a wall near you!

Contact me today to purchase your favorite! 

Art is available for immediate pick up or shipping (shipping costs apply). Cash, check and credit card accepted.

Click on the image to see the full view


The Feisty Blue

Mary Liz Ingram —  July 30, 2014 — Leave a comment

Blue Jay, pastel on handmade paper

Blue Jay, pastel on handmade paper

A mass of blue jays scatter the trees

Hopping mad they scream out angry calls

From the branch to the roof to the bush to the sky

A flurry of feisty blue

They eye the ground intensely

Switching positions without pause

I stop and stare at the feathered spectacle

Counting the moving birds in vain

Five no six, they hop and caw and screech

Wary of their sharp eyes and open beaks

I creep forward and spot a foe

A white cat perches nimbly among the azalea

With a shake of the bush, the cat escapes

The jays begin a cautious lessening

Still emitting a jumbled unity of warning

Such fierce attention and determined vehemence

Encased in those feathers of blue

“Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

There’s a nest outside my window.

It’s empty now.

Nestled among the thorns of pyracantha, protected and safe, the mockingbird built her home.

I passed by the bush one day and heard peeping. Peering up through the tangle of branches and leaves, I caught a glimpse of a wobbly, tiny bird, mouth to the sky. For the next few weeks, I watched the mother tirelessly feed her nestlings, hearing their loud peeps whenever she returned with a worm.

One rainy day, I looked up to see her come out from the nest, drenched and ruffled. On yet another search for food, she paused on top of the fence. I paused outside of my car. Standing in the rain, we looked at each other. I didn’t move, nor did she. I was loaded with bags and had just ushered my kids inside, a tired mother. I felt an unmissable connection to that mother bird. I felt a camaraderie, I felt my place in the nature of things. Mothers, caring for our children day in and day out; protecting them, nurturing them, helping them grow.

Yesterday, I saw a baby mockingbird happily hopping down the road. Peppy and spry, he hopped and hopped, while mother bird followed along the tree branches, watching, protecting.

I followed too, worrying for the new little bird. Barefoot, I walked down the street after the mockingbirds, keeping an eye on the neighbor’s cat sleeping on his steps. The fledgling found a spot in a rose bush, so I went home to my little ones.

Tonight as evening fell, I went into my yard. My dogs weren’t coming when I called, so I looked to see where they were. My heart sank. One of them had my baby bird.

I still choke up as I write. In anger and mourning, I desperately made the dog release. As our baby bird lay on the ground, I looked for it’s mother. There she was, on the fence, moving back and forth, watching from a distance. I felt her confusion, her loss.

I cried. I felt such pain for her. All her care, guidance and protection, and he was gone. With apology, respect and mourning, I took the baby into the garden, passing two thrashers chirping and hopping along the gate…observing, watching. I looked at them and hoped they could feel the respect I tried to show.

The mother mockingbird had gone. I buried the baby, with my pajama pants pulled over my knees and my bare feet pushing the shovel into the dirt. A quiet, peaceful corner of the garden, marked with a stone.

This is a sad story. It reminds me that life is a gift, and life is a struggle. Life demands respect and each day is precious, each creature a wonder. And we all have a place in the family of things.*

All things bright and beautiful,
all creatures great and small,
all things wise and wonderful,
the Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
each little bird that sings,
he made their glowing colors,
he made their tiny wings.

Mother Mockingbird, ink doodle

Mother Mockingbird, ink doodle

*from “Wild Geese,” by Mary Oliver

The Birds

Mary Liz Ingram —  February 12, 2013 — 2 Comments
Busy Birds, 7X12 soft pastel on card

Busy Birds, 7X12 soft pastel on card

I step outside into the fresh morning air;

a swirl of eager chatter encircles me.

I lift my eyes to the busy scene:

birds playing a game of musical chairs

amongst the bare branches of the tall trees.

All weight is lifted into the cool gray sky,

agendas fade and I pause upon the stair.

I breathe in life.

I feel a small and glorious part

of the nature of things.

neighborhood chatter

neighborhood chatter