I’d been wandering around out this way for a couple of hours. The day was blustery and not particularly warm but at least the light was nice. Diffused by the chinook clouds, it lay soft on the land. Stubble fields now free of snow glowed yellow, ponds were a deep amber, the colour of tea. And there were birds everywhere.
Robins flew up from the ditches where they were poking around, meadowlarks tried to cling to fenceposts but had trouble with the wind. Redtail and Swainson’s hawks, back from their winter sojourns in Central and South America, grabbed tightly to branches in farmyard poplars or silhouetted against the sky.
I didn’t manage to get pictures of any of them. But the swans were a different story.