This handsome devil spent a few minutes singing from the weeping willow in the backyard this morning. Julie got several shots, but I (the clumsy digiscoper) managed only this one shot.
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.
Oh - I can nearly hear the music
ReplyDeleteI 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.
ReplyDeleteAlways appreciate your comments, Endment.