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An Indigo Bunting free porn video
This is a copyrighted original work of fiction. All rights reserved.
All characters featured herein are at least eighteen years of age, even if not expressly stated. Any resemblance between actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Many thanks to Jim K for the fine editing work.
Song lyrics contained herein remain the exclusive property of the original artist.
This work may not be copied or distributed without the exclusive written permission of this author.
*
The lady standing next to me heard my knees crackle as I squatted down in the bookstore.
There were three different field guides for North American birds east of the Rockies. She watched me in amusement as I struggled to stand up with a copy of each in my hands.
Two had drawings of birds, the third, by the Audubon Society, had photos of birds and the book was narrower, more suited to slip into a pocket.
‘If you’re looking for a field guide, you should pick that one,’ she said pointing to the one by Roger Tory Peterson.
I must have had a puzzled look on my face as I regarded the woman. She was fiftyish, maybe a year or two younger than me. Slender, good looking but dressed like a school teacher with knee length plaid skirt and button up sweater. I liked her stylish glasses, not so sure though about the chain around the neck holding her glasses on.
‘Oh?’ I said flipping through the book. It seemed to me that photographs would give a more accurate portrayal of the bird than a colour drawing.
She seemed to read my mind. ‘Bring all three and come with me. I’ll show you,’ she smiled and walked off towards a table with chairs around it.
Yes ma’am. I followed her silently.
‘Sit down and give your knees a rest,’ she said motioning to a chair. I sat down. She sat in the chair next to me at the end of the table.
She opened up the Audubon book and flipped through a few pages, then turned the book to me. There were four photos of ‘Duck-like Birds’ shown.
‘What are the differences between the two on the left?’
They looked the same. White ducks with brown heads and brown tails. Even the eyes were the same color. One was labeled Redhead the other Canvasback.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered.
‘Take the book and keep the page,’ she instructed. She opened the Peterson book and flipped through a couple of pages, then turned the book to me.
There were ducks all over the right side page and written descriptions on the left page.
‘Here are your two birds, right here,’ she pointed with manicured pink fingernails to the top two entries on the page ‘Bay Ducks (Divers).’ Each entry showed a male and female. Sure enough one was Canvasback the other Redhead. They looked like completely different birds.
‘Wow,’ I said. She smiled at me.
‘You see, they even show them in flight.’ Her slender finger pointed to smaller drawings next to the main ones. ‘And the description is on the opposite page.’
‘Cool,’ I said. I then opened the Audubon photo style book back up. I still couldn’t see a difference between the two photographs.
‘The Peterson guide is the standard used by birdwatchers,’ she said with just a hint of authority.
‘You’re a birdwatcher then?’ I asked. I noted a lack of wedding or engagement rings.
‘Used to be. I used to be a lister. Now I just enjoy being outdoors occasionally. And I love birds. Do you?’
‘I do, but what’s a lister?’ It sounded like a boat with too much water in it.
There was a little bit of surprise in her face, as if everyone should know what it means.
‘A lister is a birdwatcher that keeps a personal list of every species of bird they’ve seen.’
‘Oh. How many different birds have you seen?’
‘Oh gosh. I don’t know. Hundreds I’m sure.’ She sat herself upright.
‘So have you seen every different type of bird in this book?’ I asked holding the Peterson guide.
‘Oh heaven’s no,’ she waved her hand, then with a curled finger in the air said, ‘but there are some that will make that effort. It’s a sport to them.’
‘Really?’ I like sports. I flipped through the Peterson book. Northern Shrike, Loggerhead Shrike even in the drawings they looked the same. There were colour coded maps at the back of the book.
‘It’s a hunt for some. Many take photographs as proof.’
‘Do you take photos too?’ I asked, my nose still nuzzled in the field guide.
‘I did, but gave it up. It’s too cumbersome to lug all that equipment around. Then in the end you are missing the beauty of the bird in its natural environment because you’re fiddling with the camera. No, for me the satisfaction is simply knowing that I’ve found the bird.’ She smiled very warmly.
She really was a good looking woman. She had shoulder length, straight, light brown hair, high cheekbones, perfect skin, the lines of age were there but there was no wrinkling. Her face was feminine, straight teeth over thin but emotional lips. Her jaw and neck were very feminine. Her nose was straight.
I guessed that the glasses were reading glasses. They had a bright blue plastic frame with different little squiggles of colour built in. Her glasses were attached to a chain which hung like jowls giving her the instant impression of an older lady. Did she realize?
She must have caught me daydreaming. She startled me a little when she asked, ‘Do you get out often to see birds?’
‘Ah…Lovie and I like to go for a walk through the woods. Sometimes I see birds and they’re different from anything I’ve ever seen before. And I always wondered what kind of bird they are. Hence the field guide interest.’
She smiled at me. I saw her eyes were blue through her reading glasses.
‘So do you go bird watching often?’ I asked.
Her demeanor changed a little as she answered, ‘Not anymore really, I used to go with my husband.’
‘Oh,’ I said. But no wedding ring. ‘What happened?’ I soon as I asked that I wished that I didn’t.
‘He passed away three years ago,’ she said softly.
That’s why I knew I shouldn’t have asked the question. How do I fucking do that all the time? ‘I’m…gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that up. Please forgive me.’
She half grinned at me and said, ‘That’s alright, you weren’t to know.’ She took a deep breath and then added, ‘Traipsing through the woods alone is not what a single girl should do.’
There was something in the tone of her voice when she said that gave me the impression it was a deliberate opening. Her expression was blank.
She took off her glasses letting them hang on top of her breasts and gazed in my eyes. Her eyes were indeed blue. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful face. Beautiful woman.
‘So, let me ask. Bird watching is a bit like hunting?’
She smiled softly, the left upper lip curled in the cutest way. ‘It can be, you have to make up your own rules, or simply enjoy the birds and being outdoors in the fresh air.’
I was intrigued, ‘So you track down a particular species?’
‘I did.’
‘Sorry,’ I flipped my palm up,’ I didn’t mean it as a personal question.’
Her eyes widened and she sat up just an inch. ‘Well I didn’t find any offence in your question.’
‘Sorry…ppff…I..I was wondering about the bird watching part. Hunting?’ I knew I was making a fool of myself. ‘It sounds like fun.’
She smiled again, with that curled upper lip and just looked at me.
‘Is there a particular bird that you’ve been hunting for?’ I asked, recovering.
Her expression had changed while she listened to my question as if every word I said was important and then she smiled again, ‘There is actually. An Indigo Bunting.’ She paused for a moment to gauge my reaction. I guess I didn’t have one. ‘Look it up,’ she said sliding the Peterson book to me.
I flipped to the index at the back. I couldn’t find it. There
were hundreds of birds listed.
‘Under Bunting,’ she said as she opened up the Audubon book.
‘Page 274. There it is. It’s a blue bird.’ I said.
‘No, it’s a bird that is blue,’ she paused, smiling, ‘A Bluebird is different,’ she corrected me. I wondered if she really was a school teacher as she handed me the Audubon book. Sure enough there was the Indigo Bunting and the photograph opposite was a Mountain Bluebird. They looked virtually identical.
‘The funny thing is,’ she continued, ‘that the Indigo Bunting is a fairly common bird. I’ve just never seen one.’
I sat up straight, took a deep breath and asked her, ‘Perhaps you would like to accompany me and Lovie next time we go for a walk?’ I smiled.
She paused then smiled sweetly, ‘Is Lovie your wife?’
The question startled me, ‘Kind of I suppose, she’s the only female in the house. I just never thought of an English Bulldog as my wife. But…she can be a little demanding…and sometimes a down-right bitch.’ I said grinning to her.
She sat in her chair staring at me without an expression on her face. Her back was straight. I wasn’t sure if she was reacting to me saying ‘bitch’ or to the sudden realization that I was single, or why exactly. Then I watched her eyes move up and down as she took me in.
A smile washed across her face and she pushed out her manicured hand, dusty pink fingernails hanging down, ‘Sophie, I’m so pleased to meet you.’
I put my hand around hers and kissed the back of her hand, ‘Frank Proulx and I’m so pleased to meet you too.’ I let go of her slender fingers.
‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ she said smiling.
We grinned at each other.
‘So, where and when do you and Lovie go for walks?’
‘On the weekends I like to go for a hike. Bruce Trail usually. It’s not far from where I live. Where does one have to go to find an Indigo Bunting?’
She chuckled, ‘I wish I knew. On the edges of mixed forests, I’ve been led to believe.’
‘The Bruce Trail certainly goes through mixed forests. Even just within the area near here. How about Saturday morning?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ she answered, ‘bird watching it is, then. Saturday morning. Bring your binoculars.’
We both immediately pulled out our cell phones and giggled as we recognized how we both have changed with the times. The game plan was that we would watch the weather and exchange emails as Saturday approached. I was to pick a place and time to meet and send details to Sophie.
I bought the Peterson book and the Audubon book. As I stood in the check-out line, I couldn’t help but think ‘what the hell just happened?’
As I drove home I contemplated my life. I hadn’t been on a date or had sex, aside from self-administered, in almost three years. Had I completely given up? Sophie shook me up. Of that there was no doubt. Although it was ostensibly just bird watching, I knew it was potentially more. She was a widow. Was I ready to admit that I wanted more? There was a time when I felt that I needed to. But did I need more now? For the first time in my life I felt that I was actually at peace with myself. I was content where I was. And then Sophie was in my face. Did I really need this?
On my way home I bought a pair of binoculars.
That night I had a dream. I dreamt that it was sunny and warm and I was walking down a forest path, holding hands with someone. I don’t know who, but there was a feeling of warmth. We watched bright yellow birds flit through the sunlit branches. The leaves were glistening in the sun. One bird stood out from the rest. It was bright blue.
The next morning I received an email.
Frank,
I had a most peculiar dream last night. I dreamt I saw an Indigo Bunting in sunlit branches.
Looking forward to Saturday, let me know where and when.
Regards,
Sophie Cumberland
How bizarre.
Lovie and I met Sophie the following Saturday at the location I indicated to her in an email during the week. It was warm but not that sunny. She was dressed in blue jeans a yellow cotton long sleeve shirt and a thin sweater. She wore hiking boots and a Tilly hat. I really hadn’t noticed her figure in the bookstore. She was slender, smallish boobs and had a very nice bum. Maybe five-five tall. Probably a little less. Her straight light brown hair was in a pony tail. She wore just a hint of make-up.
No glasses.
Binoculars hung from her neck and a little brown leather satchel sat on her left hip with the matching brown leather strap around her neck.
She looked delicious, but also a bit nerdy. A delicious nerdy I decided.
‘So this is Lovie,’ she said as the dog approached her with her little tail wagging. They immediately took to each other. ‘How old is she?’
‘Eight?’ I said, not quite sure, ‘just don’t let her breathe on you.’
‘What a fine dog,’ she scrunched down in her knees and scratched Lovie behind the ears, ‘You’re a good doggie aren’t you?’ She asked in a silly half-octave higher cutsie voice.
Lovie will befriend an axe murderer if she gets a scratch behind the ears out of it. But then, one sharp word from me and Lovie will sink that powerful jaw into someone and not let go.
‘So are we hunting for an Indigo Bunting?’ I asked.
She stood up, ‘We’re always hunting for Bunting.’
I laughed, ‘You couldn’t wait to say that, could you?’
‘Ah..ha..haa…’ she laughed out loud in a strange musical voice.
‘Come on Lovie, let’s go.’
And off we went through the gate and down the worn trail. The two of us walked through the woods, sometimes side by side and sometimes there was only one thin path and she insisted that I lead the way.
Lovie trundled along behind, tongue hanging out.
Sophie would all of a sudden stop and look into the trees. She would announce the name of the bird then say, ‘There it is,’ pointing. Sure enough, there would be a bird there. It would take me a while but I would eventually find it. I would take a good look at it through my binoculars and then I would look it up in the Peterson guide. She got it right every time. She did it five times.
She never looked through her own binoculars. The protective safety caps were still on.
She, being right into bird watching I gathered, was honed into the movements in the trees. I on the other hand was naturally inclined to look at the rocks, the various tree species, the various shrubs and plants along the way. Maybe that’s how she did it. She must be watching for movement in the trees. I made a conscious effort to look for birds, for movement in my peripheral vision.
We stepped out onto a little clearing. The tallest trees and shrubs were maximum twenty foot high.
‘See those up there?’ she said pointing high above us in the air, ‘Turkey Vultures. You can tell by their feather fingers and two-toned wings.’
No fair she’s checking the sky too.
I looked up, there were two birds just soaring in the air, not flapping their wings at all. ‘Check, Turkey Vultures.’ I said. I knew I had seen them before.
I flipped open my Peterson guide and looked it up. Ugly birds, no feathers on their heads.
‘Some people think it’s an ugly bird just because it hasn’t feathers on their heads,’ she said.
Did I say that out loud? Am I losing my mind?
‘I think they are majestic, especially in flight.’
I looked up again. They weren’t exactly where they were a few moments ago, but not too far away to appreciate their flight.
‘Pass me your book,’ she said, ‘I think there’s another page.’ I handed her the book. She pulled out and put on a pair red framed reading glasses and flipped through the book. In an instant handed it back to me, opened at a page depicting Dark Birds of Prey Overhead. Sure enough, Turkey Vulture compared with similar birds.
She smiled as she pulled her glasses off and tucked them into her pocket.
Off we went again
along the clearing.
‘So we’ve seen,’ I said, ‘in order, a Robin which I already knew, a Chickadee, which I also knew, both Hairy and a Downy Woodpeckers which I admit were new…’
‘Which one was which?’ she interjected. ‘One is larger than other, otherwise they are identical.’
‘The first one was the larger,’ I answered confidently.
‘Okay, but which one was that? The Downy or the Hairy?’
I lifted my arms, ‘Okay, you got me,’ palms up.
‘The Hairy is the larger bird.’
School-marm.
‘And we saw,’ I had to get this just right, ‘a Rose Breasted Grosbeak, a really cool bird. Huge beak on it. Really cool.’
‘Very good, so are you making a list?’
‘I guess.’
She stopped and pulled out of her satchel a well worn copy the Peterson Guide book. It kind of just opened to page 18-19 and she handed me her book. Systematic Checklist, it was a checklist of bird names that went on for several pages. She had drawn in a tiny male and/or female symbol on the left side and then added a little date or in many cases dates on the right side next to each entry. She had maybe a third filled out. Sometimes there would be five or six names in a row missing.
‘So this is your list?’
‘Yup.’
‘Cool, you’ve seen a lot of birds.’ I was reading some of the names randomly, ‘Purple Martin, Mourning Dove, Red-Br Nuthatch…Red Brah?…’
‘Breasted.’
‘Breasted?’
I paused.
She turned a little pink.
‘You’re turning pink. Why? Because of the word breasted?’
She turned even deeper colour and started to giggle. ‘Now you’re turning red.’ I laughed.
We both just stood there giggling. ‘I’m really liking this bird watching.’
‘Ah!’ she covered her tits with her hands.
Laughing I said, ‘I wasn’t looking at your breasts!’
She was laughing out loud in that odd musical voice. I loved that laugh.
‘You are quite the rare bird though,’ I added still laughing.
She was clutching her sides. I loved watching her laugh.
‘Oh my,’ she said, a moment later while drawing in a deep breath. She wiped under her right eye with the tip of her index finger, carefully not scratching herself with her perfectly manicured dusty pink fingernails.
I still had her list in my hand.
We walked on, ‘Come on Lovie.’ She had already lain down. ‘What a lazy animal.’
‘You will note, on the last page of the list, Indigo Bunting is not checked off. Near the bottom, under Finches.’
I stopped to take a look. Indeed it was not.
‘But neither is Lazuli Bunting or Painted Bunting?’ I didn’t get it.
She had a bit of a shock on her face, ‘Those birds aren’t in our area. The Indigo Bunting is. It would be a fluke to see one of the other two. An accidental bird, a stray. The Indigo Bunting is a fairly common bird. They come to bird feeders all through southern Ontario. Just not mine. Or when I had one. Nor have I ever seen one while on a hike.’
‘So the hunt is on.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said with a smile, ‘we are hunting for Bunting.’
Within about three paces she said, ‘Oh look, Goldfinch.’
She did it again.
What I couldn’t figure out was how she would see the birds before I could. I was watching too. Actively trying. It was weird. It was as if she was conjuring up the birds.
‘You can tell by their song,’ she said smiling.
I didn’t even ask a question. I didn’t even formulate one in my mind.
There was something very weird with that lady.
‘Every species has a song which is as unique as their feathers,’ she said and then she added, ‘your Peterson guide will give you at least a clue of what that song is. And I believe there’s an i-phone app for that too.’
She could identify the birds by their song alone? Suddenly I tuned myself into the sounds of the forest as we walked along. She was right. There were all kinds of different songs.
We had a wonderful time, Lovie did too. We saw all kinds of birds. Some were familiar like a Crow, Robin, Blue Jay and so forth, but others I had never even heard of before. Brown Headed Cowbird, Flicker, House Finch, there were several types of sparrows and of course Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers. I still couldn’t remember which was the larger. There were lots of Chickadees and lots and lots of Goldfinch.
I asked her about her dream, if there was anyone else in it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I can’t remember.’
We never did see an Indigo Bunting that morning.
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