I’ve spent hours the last two days watching for orioles and tanagers and other exotic-looking migrators but it occurs to me tonight that my most reliable friends are the ordinary finches who hang out here year-around.


They’ve been flying around in pairs all day today, singing excitedly. The red caps of the males seem redder than usual this spring. I believe they nest nearby and know that they visit my protected watering dish often. They do not seem to expect store-bought food, which I don’t put out, mostly because of wild horses. The finches are so crimson up top, I think they might be Cassin’s finches. I am sure they are not the rosy finches of Sandia Crest, 4,000 feet above.


I caught a glimpse yesterday, but not a photograph, of what I think were three tanagers. A Kingbird chirped for me briefly this afternoon but proved to be camera-shy.


There was one fellow so ruffled up with bath water that I couldn’t tell what he was, although my books say finches, too, sometimes have patches of yellow.


So, at the end of the day, I’m not worrying about the fancy tourists and am taking my hat off to my homebody friends, the finches.


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