One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen. An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of science are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who sees the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise. ― Aldo Leopold
I enjoy feeding the birds.
A murmuration of starlings buzzed the cars on I-35 today.
The female northern flicker appears to have selected one of two suitors. The rejected male spent the day looking for the female. He sat in my yard calling for her. “Kyeer, kyeer. Kyeer, kyeer.”
The red-tailed hawk returned to the yard this afternoon. I have a crush.
These birds are my commitment remaining in the present.
I heard a blue jay cheep like a small songbird at the red-tailed hawk today. I’ve never seen that approach before, and I have no idea what informed the behavior.
I just played Vivaldi on my flute for the house finches.
Many people have an idea of what a bird is, but because they don’t pay close attention to birds, they don’t know what an actual bird is.
If you don’t pay close attention to birds, don’t write about them. Certainly don’t snare them in your nondescript haiku. Real birds deserve better than what you have to say about them.
I like men who walk their dogs in the woods.
Two paths trisect the snow-mantled yard: one to the birdbath, another to the bird feeders.
Juxtaposition: a brown creeper on the sweetgum, a bald eagle in the sky.
When I grow up, I want to spend all my time with birds.