Colorado River at the northern slope of the Uncompahgre Plateau
Western Meadowlarks sang this afternoon from greasewood perches below the Book Cliffs. The song, which begins sweet, turns slippery. Meadowlarks recall Iowa. As a teenager in Iowa, I bicycled in the evenings after work on the paved county roads that separated the cornfields. The fences along the fields had wooden posts, where Eastern Meadowlarks sat. As I approached on my bike, the Meadowlark songs rose sweetly and turned slippery as I passed.
The yellow breasts of the Western Meadowlarks matched the leaves of the cottonwood line that extended along the wash coming from Demaree Canyon in the Book Cliffs. The orange of the hunters in the canyons didn’t match anything; the prevalence of the warning color was sufficient to keep me from walking.