While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons, I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. -Walden, Thoreau
Wilson's Pasture: the forty acre field near where Dad grew up in Fayetteville. In the winter dawn, Dad says, the song of birds was overwhelming. Dad tosses his hands up in the air, unable to convey the sense of that loud and lost symphony. Far greater than these days, he says, now just peeps and occasional chatter.
Outside Dad's window; a flock of robins, a lone junco, a red-bellied woodpecker on the trunk of a big, white pine, and a downy woodpecker moving along a branch of the same. This morning; a "herd" of squirrels, six, devouring sunflower seeds. Maybe my uncle will look up the correct word for such a group.