I love the maple more because of the cardinal, and I love the cardinal more because of the maple.
Black cattle rise from the ground like basalt erratics in a limestone world.
You do feel alive. You just don’t like how that feels.
What is an extra hour in sky-time?
It’s as if the entire red maple has become the female cardinal, a form of reverse camouflage.
Dropping conditioning is, in itself, a form of conditioning.
Shhh. The squirrels are napping.
Water that reflects the sky is full of sky.
The juncos are wonderful company this time of year.
My love of birds started years ago when I released a starling from my father’s trap.
I came home to a Cooper’s hawk perched on my fence.
I think it was a sharp-shinned hawk. And I think a blue jay imitated the alarm cry of a Cooper’s hawk when the sharp-shinned hawk arrived. (Update: This accipiter was later identified as a very young female Cooper’s hawk, so the blue jay used the right call after all.)
Two great horned owls appear to be competing for territory in our neighborhood.
These days with birds are magical.
I woke to ice in the birdbath and a mantle of apricot leaves in the still-green lawn.
I topped the birdbath off with water that wasn’t frozen. Within minutes, dozens of birds came to get a drink or take a bath.
I live between two flyways, so there is a lot of interesting stuff going on here birdwise.
I just saw a yellow-bellied sapsucker in our backyard. A downy woodpecker and a red-bellied woodpecker were back there, too.
I’m ready for my arms to serve as branches.
My neighbor is walking down the street with a large shamanic drum.
Every night, the sky turns into a stigmatic, bleeding from sudden wounds.
The birds have entered my dreams, pale and wandering.