Ghost Buffalo

The smallest feline is a masterpiece.                                     Replies the Modern Artist With the cat  I generally  concur:  stalk, hiss,  pounce,  purr.  

The cold has descended, and with it, what appears to be a new gaggle of crows, the chickadee and the falcon, the coyote and the row deer, and redtail and owl in abundance.  By this time last year, a golden eagle had established a presence along the length of the canyon.   One can almost hear the collective shuddering of the mice, and the quail, and the rabbits huddled in the undergrowth. Yesterday I trekked down into the ravine and filled the feeders with seeds and nuts, and felt a thousand tiny eyes upon my every move.  And still, they waited until dusk to emerge and feed themselves, somewhat frantically, some hours later.   The raptors aren't pleasure-cruising this time of year, and leisurely, social, noisy dining is out of the question.  The summer affords safety in numbers; winter is a different algorithm entirely.  Even the goats across the way bleat in the afternoons right on cue, but with less conviction in the thin air.  Big ol rumbling raccoon tha