red feet in the cold snow
I admire the sangfroid of the mourning dove when its is zero degrees out. Even fluffed up to insulate against the cold, she looks quite elegant right down to her stockings.
It takes patience to choose the sunflower seed with meat intact.
Having made a choice they go about blissfully pecking and eating with grace while not ruffling feathers
Sometimes they eye me in the window as if to say - “Friend, Foe or Food?”