By any definition, Scolopax minor, the American woodcock, is an odd bird.      Though classified as a shorebird, it lives on the edges of immature forests. Secretive and exquisitely camouflaged, it’s rarely seen except during its dizzying crepuscular mating display. Its folk names are legion, inspired as much by its haunts as … More Flight of the timberdoodle

The big pale bird flew low to the stubbled field, its powerful wingbeats propelling it toward a sharp rise where the land fell away toward the distant Little Blue River. Something about its flight pattern seemed odd, simultaneously more buoyant and erratic, its color the epitome of a gray wintry dawn. The light was bad, … More Winter ghost

It’s always the same, you sit down to your first cup of coffee, sleep dragging at your gritty eyes, your list of to-dos exponentially long depending on the day of the week but set aside for a brief spell to collect your wits and infuse your sluggish gray matter with hard jolts of caffeine, and … More Chasing elusion

Dark-eyed junco. Harris’s sparrow. Crow. Blue jay acting like a street thug without the street cred. Tree sparrow with its chestnut cap and crisp white markings, a tidy little bird of impeccable demeanor. More crows freckling the pale sky. An endless river of crows flowing northwestward from their roost, silently attentive, their beady black eyes … More Counting on nothing