On the last morning walk Hiram and I took in Idaho, a very noisy bird interrupted our conversation. Hiram located the rude critter in the tippy-top of an evergreen tree. While I whipped out my camera, Hiram also spied the mystery bird of prey’s nest in the next tree over.
Maybe the bird was trying to scare us away from a clutch of eggs. As if the constant ruckus and our lack of desire to scale the tree weren’t enough, one look in the telephoto lens at the bird’s hooked beak would have convinced us to keep our distance. That beak, though slightly blurred by my camera shake, is one wicked weapon.
With weeds to pull, wedding supplies to store, bills to pay, a mother to visit, and a book to write, bird identification isn’t making my top ten list any time soon. So, if you can identify the mystery bird, have at it.
To be honest, my travel recovery is taking too long for this efficiency queen. I’m way behinder than expected going into the weekend. So our encounter with the noisy, conversation stopping, mystery bird has me wondering how and why our feathered friends migrate twice a year. But the bigger question is this: Why do human snow birds voluntarily do the migration thing? It’s hard enough unpacking from a week of vacation. But to open a second house, put everything in place, adjust to a new climate and time zone, get reacquainted with friends – whew! I don’t think I’m up to it.
But someday, I’d like to be free as a bird, like you. So please, human snowbirds, share your travel tricks with non-migratory folks like me. And leave your comments before August 4, when I go to Florida for a few days. I want to become flexible and adventurous before meeting my first alligator!
