Sometimes on gray days you long to see a painted bunting. Today the north Texas skies turned gray with promises—promises of overdue rain, too late for the wildflowers, but perhaps in time for the water supply.
Beneath these gray skies, pregnant with failed promises and impending
cloudbursts, I walked in a place where roadrunners and Englemann’s daisy are preserved.
I spotted a red-bellied woodpecker in my binoculars, and thought myself well-pleased. Then, just when I thought I’d spotted an eastern bluebird, I realized I was looking at a painted bunting, a bird I’d seen in books but could not recall seeing in person.
Although the painted bunting usually hides in the woodlands, this one stood atop a bare branch for a quarter hour and sang.
I viewed him from every angle,and snapped this digiscoped photograph as well:
In relationships, everyone hopes to see a painted bunting. This song is about when the bunting turns out to be indigo, or when the bunting has simply flown away.