Green Wood Hoopoe
This little Green Wood Hoopoe danced in the tree foraging for bugs for twenty minutes the other day. “Kuk-uk-uk-uk-uk,” he called loudly. We love their metallic plumage. He moved so quickly it was difficult to clearly catch him in the frame.
Meanwhile, the pigeons have returned to the front porch for the tenth year running. They have never had success hatching eggs on top of our electrical boxes, but they come back every year. This, my friends, is the very definition of futility.
A final word about birds and nests: A pothole in French is called a chicken’s nest.
EDITED TO ADD:
Perseverance; not futility. I stand entirely corrected.