Aren’t gulls the most gormless-looking creatures? They give Hugh Laurie as Bertie Wooster a run for his money.
No chickadees today, I’m afraid: it seems they’re no more enamoured of this weather than I. As I shuffled along Bucketwheel, camera clutched to my chest, brolly perched on my head, I could hear the birds, but I couldn’t see them. They were all in the bushes, hiding from the rain.
But what’s this? — a single, bedraggled song sparrow pokes up his head —
A hapless song sparrow, getting rained upon (Moberly Rd. & Bucketwheel).
— and is recorded for posterity. Burn.
Get out of here!
Been getting loads of these buggers round the feeder, lately. The crows are doing their best to deter them — mobbing them, pulling their tails when they stoop to feed, loudly besquawking them — but to little avail. What does one do about a gull infestation? I don’t mind the crows; they’re polite. They wait for other birds to finish, before hopping on the feeder. They relieve themselves elsewhere. They keep their cawing to a minimum, before sunrise. These gulls, though, phoah! — they frighten my finches, slop bird lime everywhere, screech across the courtyard at five in the morning — they’re the worst!