FarmWife set out to count the birds on our last outing, but by the time we got to the first bend in the road (not to the trailhead yet, understand, but just on the road TO the trailhead) she had counted eight bald eagles, two red tailed hawks, one great blue heron, and one bird that may have been a golden eagle or a juvenile bald eagle. She gave up, being out of fingers and wanting to spend more time in enjoyment of my company than in concentration on her ornithological survey.
FarmWife learned, much to her disappointment, that it is very hard to get a crisp, clear photo of a bird at the top of a 100-ft. conifer in the pouring rain from the back of a moving mule with an automatic camera. Even when it is a very BIG bird. In fact, this is the best she could do despite an abundance of opportunity.
That's all right. I love her anyway, even if she's never going to make a name for herself as a photographer of birds. I'd rather she make a name for herself as the FarmWife of Bent Barrow Farm, and as Fenway's human, and as the typist of Brays of Our Lives.
As for the birds, we like them. They've never yet snatched up a chicken, a cat, or a baby, and they keep the fish carcasses from creating a stink come spawning season. They still thrill my humans by soaring over Bent Barrow Farm—it's a sight that never grows old. Not unlike the sight of me, Fenway Bartholomule.