At the End of June 



bank or sticking above the tide, is one of 

 the funniest things in nature. He seems 

 to have lost his balance somewhere, away 

 back at the beginning, and never to have 

 been quite able to recover it since then, 

 try as he will. Yet he is a bright, clean, 

 handsome bird and gay of spirit, none 

 the less. 



Just as his tinny note dies out in the 

 distance, my approach stirs up a httle 

 Screech Owl, who, first giving me a wooden 

 stare, as he sits straight, trim and dignified 

 on the dead branch of a willow, moves off 

 with slow-flapping wings, in soft, noiseless 

 flight through the deepening shadows. 



And then, noting how close indeed the 

 dark has settled down, silent and furtive 

 as a Cedar Bird (of whom a word in another 

 chapter), I myself take the hint and move 

 off too — toward the highway and home. 



[127] 



