The horses still can't find anything green to eat.
Yesterday was the last piano lesson forevermore (boo hoo)(that is me, weeping into my hands) for He Who Must Not Be Mentioned. We planned to have supper in town afterward. He wanted to go to the drive-through for french fries and mozzarella sticks, so once we got our food we motored out to the wetlands look-out. It is an international bird station and will be a fine place to go walking, when the weather warms up.
As it is, I wore a winter jacket to read the billboards. A bundled-up lady came off one of the windy trails and asked if I was a "birder." I said no and began to explain that I am a birdlover, though, when she put her binoculars to her eyes and said "I think that's a [some kind of warbler] I'm looking at" and scribbled in her notebook and I'm sure she wished I'd be quiet. So I was.
It looked like the warbler that's been at our feeders for a couple days: the yellow-rumped warbler. I'm not a birder, but I have Saskatchewan Birds, by Alan Smith, and a decent pair of binoculars.
For the first time in my life, I was old enough to order off the seniors menu, thank you very much. My fellow 50-year-olds, I see you turning green already.