I hate to intrude--
feel that I've walked rudely into a scene, scattering those already there, sending them rushing for cover.
And, many times, catching their hasty exit in flutters and scrambles, I'll drop to sit, quietly without moving, right where I stood, hoping they'll be more forgiving of my carelessness, as a small lump on the ground.
And return, as if I were not there.
Yesterday I stepped off my usual path, and strode purposefully out across the grassy banks of the pond, toward the oak woods. Drunken on sunshine from the brightest blue overhead, delighted that this day, even though again sharply cold, had given itself for me to explore, perhaps more eager than I should have been to be out drinking it in, I startled a small flash of blue, and then another from the young trees at the woods’ edge.
And, though the air was cold, I found the grass already dried and warm, and knelt there, wrapped in my dark jacket, still, waiting surrounded by their branches.
We’ve tried for 3 years to attract bluebirds to nesting boxes in our fields, each time finding none. And though our rural area supports them well, we seldom see any on our land.
I wasn’t expecting to find them here at the edge of the oak woods, and had gone outdoors that morning with only a short lens, planning to photograph the very delicate ice left on the Goldenrod by chilly spring nights.
Perhaps this year, ...bluebirds.
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