Birdin’ the Yalobusha
written by: Cynthia Griffin
Sloshin’ through mud choked with rottin’ leaves—Fuckfuckfuckwhatwasthat?—I fight to pull free of the muck tryin’ to suck my boots off with embarrassin’ wet, raspberry slurps. I’d tied the laces double-knotted tight, though, and the trick is to keep moving so the rank, swampy ground don’t have time to pull you in too deep. If you sink down past your ankle . . .
There! A flash of yellow flickers through the foliage. I freeze and raise my Rangers to my eyes trying to get a bead on the little bird’s position. With Rangers, you can focus close up and far away, which is why I’d picked that particular brand. I hate havin’ a bird sittin’ in plain view five feet away and not bein’ able to get a good gander at it.
I hone in on the yellow spot. Some kind of warbler for sure. If he would turn his head the least little bit. . . It’s gone, leavin’ naught but a dancin’ cottonwood leaf where it’d sat, and me, stuck in muck down past my ankles on the north bank of the Yalobusha River.
- Birdin’ the Yalobusha - February 18, 2025
