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told him to seek protection which he did by crawling under the tool shed. There was no mad dash for safety. It was a leisurely and grateful retreat.
It occurs to me that I reap great harvest in the small field of my Flint Hill home. By getting my carcass out of bed early I witness dramatic events and hear splendid bird music. Besides the singing robins, I hear the soothing hoots of Mourning Doves. They sing only at the beginning of the day now. Yesterday, a male was chasing a female with amorous intent. The iridescent feathers on his neck were erect and he bobbed his head as he followed her around the yard. She seemed decidedly uninterested. But then, I wouldn’t know what is in the small head of a female dove. Maybe she is just being coy.
Grackles have young out of the nest now and the air is full of their squeaky, rasping calls. How demanding and insistent
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