33 and cloudy and still. Still, I sit in a puddle from some passing shower last night, and curse. (I forgot to stow the chair.) Flight calls I can’t identify—too high, too fast, too faint. A single Mallard over, and the Mourning Dove that is becoming a regular, emerging from its roost off Bald Eagle Avenue on the other side of the creek and heading to its first bird feeder. The junkyard raven starts up its sequence of honking. All this before 7.
Watching the Watcher
Watching the Watcher
Watching the Watcher
33 and cloudy and still. Still, I sit in a puddle from some passing shower last night, and curse. (I forgot to stow the chair.) Flight calls I can’t identify—too high, too fast, too faint. A single Mallard over, and the Mourning Dove that is becoming a regular, emerging from its roost off Bald Eagle Avenue on the other side of the creek and heading to its first bird feeder. The junkyard raven starts up its sequence of honking. All this before 7.