|Pecking and Bobbing|
|One Show Only|
|Just Passing Through|
A flit of movement captures my attention. A tiny bird emerges from the winter-dry rose bush, pecking at the ground. He, or she--I can't tell--is a feathered ball of charcoal gray with an almost indiscernible streak of rust on back feathers.
I think it's an Oregon junco.
Juncos pass through, usually in groups. I've seen them descend in mass like bouncing hail, covering the ground so fast and disappearing as if they never dropped from the sky. At least three groups have visited.
This junco is friendly and I imagine us getting acquainted over the summer--me sitting on the sun-warmed boards of the porch, him bobbing in and out of the roses. He'll be striking once the stalks green and bud.
But nothing remains passive. Nothing stays the same. He leaves only his digital expression.
And like this junco, one day I'll just be passing through, too.