In Search of Interim Pheasants

It's 10:22 A.M.

The snow is gently falling through the pine boughs as the wind whistles assertively against what appears to be a grey sheet. I lay under the pine, one among many. Dead needles allow their presence to be known down my legs and on my hands. I do not move; I have not moved for over an hour. I hear them, yet do not see them--their cackle challenging the wind in the pines and the woosh of the turbine. Far off are other cackles; occasionally a cow makes its demands publicly. They must know of my being here. Cognizant beings they are; always slipping from one tuft of long grass to the next, barely visible. Their sign surrounds me--scratches, guano, resting beds.


I am here to photograph them. If only I could photograph their sounds or in the least map their movements. All I am left with is the wind, pines, and the rays of sunlight courageous enough to find the brown needled floor. I stay an hour more--situation similar. Maybe tomorrow I say..



Paz

J