Morning Birds

It’s gone! It’s gone! The rain is gone! And it’s taken the cloud cover with it. This morning is glorious, all sun and birdsong: how refreshing!

Of course, there’s always a fly in the ointment, isn’t there? My morning’s birding was cut short by beer, of all things. Beer! Or, more specifically, beer cans stuffed in the bushes, round my favourite birding spot. Whoever’s been guzzling Cariboo Genuine Draft, and tossing the cans into the shrubs along Moberly Road — you suck! Thanks to you, Mr. Litter Lout, I found myself shoulder-deep in scratchy vegetation, fishing out cans, instead of relaxing on any of several conveniently-placed benches, lens skyward. Oh, and I couldn’t find a dustbin, so I had to bring the cans inside. And whom should I bump into, thus laden? My landlord! My bloody landlord! Talk about embarrassing! I mean, how must that look, shuffling in at nine in the morning, arms overflowing with empties? I mumbled something about some nit sticking rubbish in the bushes, but who knows if he believed me? Brilliant: I don’t even drink, and I’m the building boozehound. Thanks.

Anyway, before the beer, things were going quite nicely. I didn’t see anything extraordinary, but the song sparrows were in lovely form, singing in every tree. They really are quite melodious, when they settle in for a proper warble, not that angry little chirp! chirp! chirp! they do, when some careless birder bumbles too close. I sat right next to one, for a while, no more than a foot away. I don’t think it realised I could see it, as it had concealed itself in a dense patch of ivy. But, though its head was hidden, its stripy breast was on full display. I watched it puff out proudly, as the bird sang and sang.

There were house sparrows, too, and mallards, Canada geese, and a chickadee or two. I was just about to follow an intriguing call, something I hadn’t heard before, when I stumbled upon the beer. (I must confess, I might’ve kept walking — I mean, I’d have come back later! I wouldn’t have left it there forever! — except, some old man came round the corner at the same time I did, and noticed me noticing the trash. I couldn’t very well leave it, could I? What a pain.)

I found a chickadee!  It was sleeping....

I found a chickadee! It was sleeping….

Oops!  It woke up.  Hope that wasn't my fault!

Oops! It woke up. Hope that wasn’t my fault!

I’ll probably go out again, later. Today’s grocery day, though; my food gets delivered between ten and one, so I can’t go anywhere till it arrives. (Why does “between ten and one” always mean “five to one,” except the ONE time you decide to go out between ten and twelve?)

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