I just can’t resist. Having seen life bursting out in the spring forest, I’ve an urge to borrow Proust’s title here. But unlike Proust’s magnificent work, within the budding grove where I go birding, everything is stark literal, direct and visceral. No need for metaphors. Alive, chirping, calling, even confronting…
Robins stay here in the winter, but they keep quiet and hidden. Good to see energy recharged:
Or simply posturing. Here’s one Angry Bird:
And there are other beautiful creatures with wings, in much simpler form but no less elegant:
The woods are lovely, but the main draw is the Owl Family. Again, another sighting of Papa amidst the budding grove, silently keeping watch…
over this trunk from a short distance, so not to draw attention to the nest I suppose:
Can you see them?
Here they are … a closer look. Two Owlets born shortly before Easter. Mom is in there, probably taking a much needed nap. This is a different pose from the one I posted on Easter Sunday:
What does this make you think of? For me… Mt Rushmore.
Within a budding grove, surprises abound.
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