The snow is frosting sprinkled with nyjer seed.
Geese fly by so low I’m afraid they’ll get snagged on the sweetgums.
Crack. Crack. Swallow. Crack. Crack. Swallow. A blue jay shells peanuts and caches them in his expandable throat.
What is the yellow-bellied sapsucker still doing here?
There’s a sweetness to birders, like the time two women barreled across Heritage Park to make sure I’d seen the bald eagle.
Sign: Road ends in water.
Ice on a lake sings like someone playing one thousand saws.
Next to a white horse, a brown horse with a white face.
Out in the freshly tilled field: meadowlarks.
Through the dead grass, I see a man fishing.
A funeral procession passes as I stand in the field looking at meadowlarks.
Because the water is frozen, snow geese have landed in a field.
From a sparrow identification guide: The field sparrow’s song “sounds like a ball bouncing down to rest.”
I met a birder today on top of a dam. Her name is a combination of the words candelabra and mandolin. We saw pelicans.
Meadowlarks and starlings fly back and forth — low in the field — as if performing reiki on the earth.
Home: glass strike; no body. I am lousy with concern.
The woman with the beautiful name taught me how to pronounce the word merganser.
Rock pigeons stand on a frozen marsh.
Rural Kansas: the geometry of utility poles and power lines.