This jaunty little fellow greeted me almost at once; he seemed to haunt my path, disappearing and reappearing thoughout the afternoon. By the time I parked my bicycle back in the garage, my bird list totaled 29, and I'm not sure I remembered all of them. My pick-of-the-day was a pileated woodpecker whose long shadow preceeded him down the mountain, giving me a literal heads up that something big was on the way. What a treat!
Some of the early wildflowers have taken their bow for this year, but the show goes on, and new cast members appear as the weeks pass. The valley meadows are bursting with buttercups, but timid beauties like this delicate blue-eyed grass add their own splendor in small places.
I must go back to the trees again, to the lonely trees and the sky,
And all I ask is a long path, with a sitting rock nearby.
And the wren's joy and the wind's song and the aspen quaking,
And a green dress on the shy trees, edged in greeen lace, shaking.
I must go back to the trees again, to the carefree hiking life,
To the squirrel's way and the fern's way, where the thrush plays a lonely fife,
And all I ask is a place to write with my thoughts upended,
And an empty page with a pencil, sharp, when the sun's descended.
I must go back to the trees again, for the call of new life, restored,
Is a loud call and a clear call that cannot be ignored.
And all I ask is a breezy day with the tall trees sighing,
And the warm rays and the bloom scent, and the red tails, crying.