I remember the exact spot where, about this time of year, in 1974, I saw my first male orchard oriole. It was just past the little white church on Newell's Run, in a sycamore sapling poking up from the brush along the embayment.
The orchard male's combination of deep, dark cinnamon-rust and black is so understated for an oriole, but completely captivating to me.
2 comments:
Oh - I can nearly hear the music
I love the orchard's sputtery melody. It took me years to recognize it, but now it's like the voice of an old, familiar friend.
Always appreciate your comments, Endment.
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