I want to upcycle Congress into an old-growth forest.
My bird name would be the beaver-toothed ruminator.
I’m pretty sure the geese don’t call this place Kansas.
Starlings perch on power lines above the trainyard.
I just read about a type of sparrow that has a “secretive nature.” Intriguing.
One squirrel munches on an acorn while the others kuk and quaa over a Cooper’s hawk.
The great horned owl is out hunting on our street today. Between him and the Cooper’s hawk, the crows and blue jays are raising a racket.
Today, I saw the sparrow described as having a “secretive nature.” What a beauty.
The noisy rooks pass over, and you may / Pace undiverted through the netted light / As silent as a thrush with work to do — John Hewitt
I’m just here for the beauty.
No killdeer across the street. For now, the new development has won.
The recycling truck’s brakes sing like a forlorn bird.
One of the functions of language is to facilitate the creation of memories. Once we have memory, we have a past and a presumed future.
Language is not how we experience the world. It’s how we editorialize about our experiences.
As soon as I say “hawk,” I am no longer experiencing the hawk.
There’s a lot of goose poo on my shoe. I don’t know what to do.
Yesterday, I followed a kestrel through a small field.
Talk about theories all you like, but when it rains, go outside.
In place of leaves, red-winged blackbirds.
The pied-billed grebe’s white stomach shimmers like an ostrich egg.