Sunday, the fourteenth day of January

Not quite as cold as yesterday, bright and shiny morning coffee muses.

A blue jay was just fussing at me from the feeder. He’s now been replaced by a goldfinch. Yellow-rumps are playing all through the trees.

Steam is rising from my insulated coffee cup. There’s a lingering hint of wood smoke in the air from the smoldering remains of last night’s fire in the fireplace.

Through the fence row to the east, I can see yesterday’s birds swirling about in the Sunday sunlight.

When I came out, there wasn’t any breeze. Now, with the sun warming the air, a breeze has sprung up. The warming air rises over the dark fields to the south, and cold air is sucked in to replace it.

A Carolina wren is happily filling the air with it’s song. The wonder is how such a small bird can have such a big, oversized voice. Now two wrens are doing a call and response across the yards.

This season of the year is like an x-Ray machine for trees. They stand with their skeletons laid bare silhouetted against blue skies for all to admire. Every tree slightly different one from another. Even among the same species shapes are varied.

The neighborhood crows just did their morning patrol over the house. Like soldiers in a skirmish line they fly, a hundred yards apart, all in a line. Looking for targets of opportunity, kawing back and forth.

Now the vultures arrive, soaring high, riding thermals, not a wingbeat needed to maintain their flight. A shadow crossing the ground demands a skyward glance, as another vulture cuts the sun.

The crows cross once again, but from another compass point. Loud against the sky.

A hawk leaves it’s perch in the pecan at the yards back, flying low on it’s breakfast hunt.

The wind is picking up, the birds are quieting. The morning’s peace unbroken. It’s time to take a run at breakfast myself.


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