These small buffleheads stop by here every fall and spring, often in flocks of a hundred or more. After almost a hundred years this man-made lake has become a reliable rest stop for migrating birds. It always gets me singing:
Across the morning sky all the birds are leaving
Ah, how can they know it's time for them to go.
But I will still be here; I have not thought of leaving
I do not count the time.
Who knows where the time goes?
(Clicking on the picture enlarges it)
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