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cicada and held between thumb and forefinger, fascinated by his pulsating abdomen. The quivering insect symbolized the timeless magic of summer: going barefoot, prowling for endless hours in the fields in search of birds’ nests, and listening to Whip-poor-wills during the short, hot night. The cicada said this would go on forever. School and wearing shoes remained in a future so distant it did not even bear thought. After an annual initiation of a bee sting on my bare foot, summer had begun, was complete and interminable.
It was during those years that I began exploring the bottom lands of the Yadkin River that flowed sluggish and brown five miles from my home. The great trees drew me to wander for hours in search of birds: golden masked Hooded Warblers, spot breasted Wood Thrushes and Chinese red Summer Tanagers. I was happily alone, near-sighted yet wore no glasses, had no binoculars, but was blessed with unencumbered time that allowed me to wait for elusive birds to show themselves.
I found the nest of Prothonotary Warblers by watching the golden-backed
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