I have seen the Red-shafted Northern Flicker flash her orange primary underfeathers, and her white backside button, as she torpedo-dove from her hole in the snag. I have heard the Flicker’s sad cry, piercing and irresistible. I have watched the Flicker stand cantilevered on the trunk to feed her clamorous young. But I have never heard the machine-gun rap of her beak on deadwood, as I did today, echoing through Dimple Dell. But there she was, high in the dead cottonwood. I know the bird better now, and love her more.
(Images from Birdsofafeather.org and Newsweek.com, used pursuant to the Fair Use Doctrine.)