Peekaboo

I could not see the woodpecker.

I could hear it.  I could track it.  It was drumming on the bark of a pine tree, tapping like it was sending out a string of Morse code commands to the troops during war.  There was a distinct rhythm to it, a distinct pattern.  It seemed to be right in front of me, but nothing moved on the tree, not the leaves, not the vines, nothing to give away where the bird was hiding.

It's so hard most mornings to capture a bird at all.  They love to dart and flit and peek and wander.

And the more they move, the more I am forced to stand still.