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 —
— and is recorded for posterity. Burn.