Bend

A frigid dawn. Three varied thrushes on the ground before the robins were
even awake. California Quail flapping, gliding, one by one, down from the
trees they roosted in for the night to land in the brushy area beside us.
Landing on the grass, scurrying into the bushes, careful not to reveal their
presence, then announcing it loudly with their charming calls. Probably
forty of them altogether. This sparsely populated RV Park really is a park.