Hidey-Hole

You'd have to remember Greta Garbo to appreciate, "I vant to be ah-lone."  I think of that famous line every night when I look up after tucking Ruth, Poppy and Sheila into their rooms and head out to put the other four into the big room.  To the left of the door, up on the lintel, there is a space between blocks that is big enough for just one bird, and there he sits still as a stone.  It is a male barn sparrow.  The headlamps on my hat catch light from his bright eyes, but he doesn't flutter or move.  Why has he picked this unlikely roosting perch?  Is he a confirmed bachelor, a hermit bird shunning the flock, an outcast?  I personally think he is a parent of that nest of chicks that I hear on the other side of the barn in the morning and, tired of hearing "Feed me!" all day, has found himself a little Man Cave retreat.

"Oh, no!  Not again!"  As I put the chickens into their coops last night, Bessie suddenly took off running to the far side of the feed barn.  What was she after now?  Then I was hit with a wave of pungent skunk scent.  Nooo!  I still had the goats and Poppy to tend and I just couldn't face my silly dog.  Mentally checking my supplies for a de-skunking bath, I went on about my chores, stink still heavy in the air.  Coming back from the barn, I couldn't avoid her any longer and called Bess to me.  Wonder of wonders, it wasn't her!  It had to be either a road kill or some other poor dog got sprayed.  Not my problem.  I apologized for thinking the worst, and Bess and I walked back to the house by the light of the nearly full moon.

One hundred-four in Diamond Springs in the afternoon.  Regardless, it was a good day.