Late each evening, the male towhee comes out from the rhododendron for one last look at the world and a little something to eat before bed. He is done singing for the day, and still mindful of the nest. Under the lilac, he finds something that intrigues him in the moss, and starts scratching like a chicken. The motion propels him forward several inches, then he hops back and pecks at what he has turned up. Once, twice, three times — he seems to take so much pleasure in what he is doing, I think of trying it myself . . . I look back, find letters scattered all around.
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