Somewhere . . .

This male bluebird and his mate have begun their spring nesting activities right in my backyard - my little piece of heaven that is a sanctuary for all living creatures that call the Earth their home.

Perched up high at the top of a pine, this is his favorite lookout before he launches himself at the nest.

If I stand just right in the window, I am in his line of site. I watch him quietly as he waits for a time, with a piece of moss or other nest material in his beak, looking about to make sure the coast is clear. When satisfied,  he launches himself at a steep downward angle straight into his home - one of two bluebird boxes I've secured to my deck. The pine is no more than thirty feet from his home and his accuracy and grace of flight is a wonder as wondrous as the color of his beautiful blue feathers.

Perhaps I am on the other side of the rainbow

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow.
Why then, oh why can't I?

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can't I?