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120minute.bsky.social
OMPhotos
@120minute.bsky.social
680 followers 770 following 420 posts
A.k.a. Zahn. Enjoy photography, travel, and any time I can spend outdoors. All posts are my original work except reposts.
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wildlife-exposures.bsky.social
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
December 19, 2025 at 1:10 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Carolina Chickadee serving as lookout for his flock, which was foraging noisily in the low thicket beneath him. #birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Chickadees
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.
December 19, 2025 at 11:53 AM
120minute.bsky.social
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
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.
December 18, 2025 at 11:56 AM
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amygann.bsky.social
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
A coyote sits in the tall grass. It is barely visible as it paused in a field.
December 16, 2025 at 9:45 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Yellow-rumped Warbler feeding on poison ivy berries. #birds 🪶 #birding #warblers #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography
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.
December 16, 2025 at 12:04 PM
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remyscameraeye.bsky.social
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
December 14, 2025 at 4:37 AM
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remyscameraeye.bsky.social
On The Lookout... Early morning. Say "Hello" to my little buddy, Pancho The Pine Marten (Son of Pedro and Pia, quietly looking out over his territory. I love his rugged good looks.
📸🇨🇦
#AlgonquinPark #PineMarten
#Mammals #Wildlife
#Photography #WildlifePhotography #OntarioParks #Canada
December 12, 2025 at 3:45 AM
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pops.pictures
Dark-eyed Junco (Junco hyemalis), Middlegrounds Metropark, Toledo, Ohio, USA, December 2025. ©2025 #birds #nature #photography #naturephotography #toledo #ohio #autumn
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.
December 4, 2025 at 12:11 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Nandina berries, encrusted in crystalline ice from this weekend’s storm. Frederick County, MD.
#StunDay #EastCoastKin #Macro #MacroPhotography
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.
December 14, 2025 at 9:57 PM
120minute.bsky.social
A Northern Flicker foraging for worms below a thin blanket of snowy leaves. #birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Woodpeckers #ShadSpirit #FlyDay #EastCoastKin
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.
December 12, 2025 at 11:58 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Chartreuse witch hazel flower cups suspended in cold violet twilight. #Macro #MacroPhotography
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.
December 12, 2025 at 11:52 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker with a honeysuckle berry. #birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Woodpeckers
An old Lakota Legend: Come closer to the fire now, grandchildren, and listen with your whole hearts. Long ago, when the world was young and our people walked softly on this land, there lived a young man whose spirit carried a song he could not speak. He loved a girl with eyes calm as morning water, yet whenever he tried to tell her what lived in his chest, his voice failed him. So he went alone into the high hills to pray for courage. Up there, where the cedar stands watch and the wind knows every name, he heard a strange, wandering music. It was thin and lonely as winter, and it rose and fell like someone trying to remember an old tune. He followed it through the trees until he found a fallen cedar branch, hollowed by time. And there, working along its length, was a sapsucker, tapping holes in the wood—drumming his rhythm, searching for sap, unaware of the man who watched. Each time the wind slipped over those holes, the cedar branch sang—a trembling voice made by the bird’s work and the breath of the world. “Háu,” the young man whispered, “the small one is teaching me.” He thanked the sapsucker, who flicked his tail and flew off, and he carried the hollow branch back to his fire. There he shaped it with his knife, smoothing the holes the sapsucker had begun. When he placed his breath inside, the cedar answered. It sang his longing, his hope, his heart. That was the first flute. When he returned to the village, he stood outside the lodge of the woman he loved and played. She heard the truth in the music and came to him, for a song from the heart cannot be mistaken. So remember this, grandchildren: even the sapsucker, small and restless, carries the Creator’s wisdom in his tapping. Sometimes the helper we need arrives with feathers and a bright red patch on his throat, to show us the path our own voice must take.
December 11, 2025 at 11:55 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Ripe winter barberries, an offering — and thorns, a warning. #Macro #MacroPhotography
Emily Dickenson I died for Beauty - but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room - He questioned softly "Why I failed"? "For Beauty", I replied - "And I - for Truth - Themself are One - We Brethren are", He said - And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night — We talked between the Rooms - Until the Moss had reached our lips - And covered up - Our names -
December 11, 2025 at 11:50 AM
120minute.bsky.social
The last witch hazel bloom of the winter season, still vivid against the cobalt shadows of December. #MacroPhotography #Macro #Bloomscrolling #Flowers #NaturePhotography #EastCoastKin
May your voice call out, even when the meadow lies silent beneath frost and cobalt shadows. May your words burst forth like golden witch hazel into the stillness, and find open ears. May your phrases twist and curl like yellow tongues of flame against the dark, your wisdom sure, bringing peace and comfort to all who listen. May your song rise when the world has gone quiet, an offering to those who shiver in the night. May your melody stay with them, its beauty playing again and again in their memory. May your dance be one with the moon and the stars, and the fire capture your core and your pulse, the old warmth banishing the cold darkness and filling your soul with power. May your song be carried up with the smoke into the sky, and your voice rise like a spark from the embers. And may your words lift into the pale winter light to join the silver moon and the sparking stars, shining down as a quiet radiance that settles over the meadows and turns the frost into a blessing.
December 2, 2025 at 11:54 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Dried wild bergamot (bee balm) #seedhead, its honeycomb chambers already emptied of seed. #Macro #macromonday #BeeBalm #EastCoastKin
I remember this flower. It grew in the meadow just outside my front door. I watched it open from a tight bud and watched its bloom catch the first light of morning. Its soft lavender petals caught each summer breeze and released a faint mint scent when I brushed past. It bloomed longer than the other bergamot stalks and kept its color even as the rest of the meadow began to dry and fade. All season it stood there, brightening my morning walks with a brilliant glowing lavender against the mint green meadow. When the petals finally fell in autumn, this seed head remained: tight, geometric, and resilient through autumn windstorms and hail, as if the plant had folded all its strength into the intricate honeycomb. The warm straw-colored tubes echo the flawless purple petals that came before them. Even dried, the plant seems sure of itself, built with more sturdiness than you’d expect from something so wispy and delicate in bloom. And when the winter winds finally shook the seeds loose, scattering them into the grasses, I felt a quiet hope that the beauty that greeted me each morning this year would return in seasons to come.
December 1, 2025 at 11:44 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Beside a winter meadow. Frederick County, MD.

#trees #scape #landscape #naturephotography #EastCoastKin
By late November, the meadow has settled into winter. The purple ironweed and violet bergamot have faded to quiet, pale forms, and the bright yellow goldenrod and wild sunflowers stand as dry seed heads, their stalks weaving a dense, chest-high mosaic. In the low morning sun, the whole field glows, warm amber along the bases of the grasses, cooler shadows rising through the tangle of stems, and the bright fluffy seed heads. This dense growth is still alive. Even in winter, the meadow feeds and shelters its foragers. Loose flocks of White-throated and Song Sparrows move steadily through the stems, taking seeds one husk at a time, using the standing plants for cover as they hop and flutter from tuft to tuft. Fox and Savannah Sparrows appear occasionally, and Juncos forage methodically along the edges, flipping leaf litter with crisp movements to find the seeds that have drifted down from above. Each plant in its dry form carries food—tiny seeds tucked into pods, tufts of fluff, or the hard rims of spent flower heads. Toward the center of the field stands a lone maple. Its summer foliage is gone, leaving its branches open and cleanly outlined. Without the leaves, the underlying structure of the tree is a memory of the branches that swayed in the summer breezes. The meadow grasses gather closely around its base in golden waves touched by the sun. As you walk along the narrow mowed paths that divide the field, the sparrows keep track of you. They trade low, warbled notes… soft, conversational murmurs that feel more like commentary than alarm. You hear them before you see them: a rustle, a quiet chip, the brief flutter of wings. When your footsteps come too near, they lift together and settle into the low thickets at the meadow’s edge, watching from the safety of the cover. Even in late November, the meadow remains a living system: feeding, hiding, sheltering, and sustaining everything that moves through it.
November 29, 2025 at 3:56 PM
120minute.bsky.social
A male Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, wearing the muted reds of his non-breeding plumage, works his way up toward the sap wells he drilled in the trunk of an old, weathered sugar maple. Frederick County, Maryland.
#birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #Woodpeckers
A male Yellow-bellied Sapsucker clings vertically to the rough bark of an old maple. His back and face show a checkered pattern of crisp black and white feathers, while a bright but subdued wash of red colors his chin and crest. Soft, flecked highlights run along the swept-back feathers of his head, catching the light around a dark, alert eye. His bill is a muted gray, and along the flank there’s just a faint hint of the bird’s namesake yellow belly. The background is a gentle blur of winter-blue sky and pale branches, giving the scene a quiet, early-morning feel.
November 26, 2025 at 11:47 AM
120minute.bsky.social
A Cedar Waxwing 🪶 perched among the tangled branches of a multiflora rose, feasting on the bright red hips.

#birds #birding #BirdPhotography #naturePhotography #CedarWaxwing
When we were occupied the days were long and hollow. We rose with the gray light, tilled our fields beneath the watchtowers, and spoke softly so the wind could not carry the old prayers. The festivals were forbidden—no fires on the hills, no songs for the rivers. The druids’ stones were toppled, their names unspoken. Even the land seemed to sleep beneath the weight of Roman law. Praefectus called us to the green below the Great Oak. The old, gnarled tree spread wide on the ridge—roots older than memory, branches thick with the wisdom of age. Its bark still bore the ghost of the old runes, though the soldiers had scraped them once. We gathered there, thin and silent, and the Roman mounted a stone, sword at his hip. “People of the frontier,” he said, voice smooth as river clay, “you live in the peace of Rome. No hunger, no chaos, no fear. The Empire shall endure forever, and your children will praise it as you do today.” A few near the front nodded, murmuring “Yes, lord,” because such words were expected. The rest only watched with hollow eyes. Then the wind shifted—from the west, the direction of renewal, where the souls of the dead sail to rest. It came as a whisper through the oak’s leaves, speaking a language older than Rome. Out of that breath came a trembling of wings. A flock of waxwings fluttered down—gold and gray, hundreds of them—filling the branches above him. They plucked the acorns and passed them beak to beak, each taking one, each giving one, until the whole tree shimmered with motion and sharing. Someone began to hum a forbidden refrain, softly at first, then joined by others—the song of the circle unbroken. The Roman kept speaking, but his voice was only wind in the leaves. Our eyes had turned upward, following the birds, knowing the sign: the old ways were stirring, and the wheel was beginning to turn again.
November 25, 2025 at 11:44 AM
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remyscameraeye.bsky.social
Those Eyes... He's awake!! Early evening. Felix The Fox, looking very alert and refreshed, after an afternoon siesta. He's even sticking his tongue out at me. Sly fox. It was time for his evening hunt. Very handsome!!
🦊📸🇨🇦
#Fox #Mammals #Nature #Wildlife #WildlifePhotography #OntarioParks #Canada
November 24, 2025 at 11:14 PM
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maireadd100.bsky.social
#Photography
#EastCoastKin
#MacroMonday
#Leaf
A close-up image of a multi-coloured fall leaf.
November 24, 2025 at 10:55 AM
120minute.bsky.social
Male Northern Cardinal perched in dark branches above a frosty meadow in Frederick County, MD.

#birds 🪶 #birding #birdphotography #naturephotography #Cardinal
Folks still tell about Jesse Harless and Eli Tate down by Iron Gate Lake near Galax. Jesse was a mill-hand, kind but poor. Eli owned the store and kept the books in his head, sharp as a tack. They’d traded on credit for years—feed, nails, flour—until one winter Jesse’s work dried up and a debt grew between them. What started as talk turned to threats. By midsummer 1911, it was pride that kept them arguing. One thick evening, Eli rode down to the lake where Jesse was fixing his boat. He brought his shotgun, “just to hold,” he’d say later. Bad thing was, Jesse had a rifle in the boat, and soon they faced each other on the stony shore, the sun setting red behind the trees. They had it out there, each blaming the other, shouting above the wind from a storm that was rising dark over the mountain. Their voices boomed over the water until it was hard to tell who was shouting what. Then it happened. Jesse’s daughter Annie had been gathering kindling in the woods. Hearing her father’s voice, she came back cautious and stepped on a branch that cracked too loud. Eli turned quick, and Jesse saw the trouble. He lunged to put himself between the gun and his daughter. When the smoke lifted, Jesse lay twisted in the shallows, his rifle beside him. Eli stood frozen while the girl screamed. He dropped his gun and ran to help, but it was too late. Jesse was gone. From that day on, Eli worked from dawn to dark to pay his guilt. He paid every debt Jesse had owed and made sure Annie and her mother never wanted for anything. He sold his store and spent the rest of his life in hard labor—poor and hollow. They say summer never comes to the place where Jesse fell. The trees are always bare and the air stays cold, even in August. Nobody goes there, but one fisherman told of drifting into that cove and finding the branches full of bright red cardinals. Their eyes, he said, burned with the shameful question whispered on the wind: “Is your quarrel really worth the winter it’ll bring?”
November 24, 2025 at 11:39 AM
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foxes.hourly.media
November 21, 2025 at 5:20 PM
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blathin384.bsky.social
I can’t help it… here’s another one for #FoxFriday

This little fella was just adorable 🥰
Bombay Hook NWR, 1 November 2025

#EastCoastKin #PhotographersUnited #photography #Wildlife #WildlifePhotography
Photo, almost a portrait, of a red fox looking a bit sideways and not fully into the camera. The fox has a curious, almost mischievous, look on its face.
November 22, 2025 at 1:15 AM
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worldwildlife.bsky.social
Red Fox (Vulpes vulpes) by Beryl Johnson 🦊 #RedFox #fox #wildlife #nature #mammal #foxes #foxoftheday
November 22, 2025 at 3:05 AM
120minute.bsky.social
White-throated Sparrow perched upon a downy goldenrod seed head, feasting on the tiny fruits at the end of each silken thread.

#birds 🪶 #birding #BirdPhotography #NaturePhotography #sparrows #EastCoastKin
When the last purple iron weed faded away and the fields went brown and dry, a sparrow began to worry. Winter would soon seal the earth, and he had no storehouse. Spotting a chipmunk busy with his burrows, the sparrow fluttered down. “Friend, you’re strong and quick, but I know seeds and seasons,” he said. “Let’s join forces. I’ll gather what we plant, and you shall plant what I gather. Come autumn, we’ll share fairly — I’ll take the tops, and you take the roots.” The chipmunk thought this sounded just. So all summer they worked: the sparrow collecting millet and goldenrod seed, the chipmunk burying it neatly row by row. When the fields turned gold, the sparrow feasted among the nodding heads while the chipmunk dug up stringy roots and chewed bitterness. “You’ve tricked me,” Chipmunk grumbled, but the sparrow only tilted his head. “Next time you may choose the parts.” When spring returned, the chipmunk said, “This year I’ll have the tops, and you the roots.” The sparrow agreed at once. He brought him a bag of green peanuts, and together they planted from dawn to dusk. Through summer the chipmunk watched sturdy leaves unfurl and thought himself wise at last. But when frost came and the stalks withered, he found the earth riddled with buried pods, and the sparrow cracking shells in triumph. “Peanuts ripen underground,” the little bird said gently. “You should have known your crop.” The chipmunk’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. All winter he gnawed dry twigs while the sparrow slept warm and full. When spring came again, the sparrow called, “Shall we plant once more?” “Never,” said the chipmunk. “I’ll gather my own acorns, dig my own holes, and live on what I store. You are clever, but I’ll eat better if I stick with tradition.” The sparrow chuckled and flew off to find another partner.
November 21, 2025 at 11:44 AM