Paging Mr. Hitchcock

All morning, the nearly-bare vines outside my office window have been a hotbed of activity among a big group of starlings:

They come and nibble and go, come and preen and go, come and dance and chatter and go. Sophie, atop the monitor as usual, watches them with great interest, of course.

The starlings are big and sleek and shiny, and they have this frenetic energy, this air of curious judgment as they pass through.

Normally, the vines are inhabited by sparrows—smaller, less flashy, less investigative. They move amongst the leaves, or along and bare and dry vines, with a confidence that would suggest even to the casual viewer that this space is their home.

[Northwest Indiana, 2009.]

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