They hide in the thicket of barren branches of the forsythia bushes that fringe the yard. Starlings, I think, or our morning birds because their song begins just after the first light.
Most often they fly off at the very sound of a footstep. If I am utterly quiet, I can step near enough to see six or seven or sometimes 11 or 12 of them in the very middle of the bushes, resting on a branch, then flitting off to another, but always chirping, singing, even on the frostiest of mornings,
such a welcome sound.
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