The Yellow-fronted and the Audacity of Cameras
The Woodpecker and the Man with the Camera
A fable with barbs, balance, and barely hidden contempt
A Yellow-fronted Woodpecker clung to the side of a tree, working like someone who’d already put in a full shift before dawn.
She tapped with purpose, paused to listen, and stabbed with precision. Her tongue was barbed. Her patience was not.
She ignored me at first. I wasn’t loud—I was just holding still and pretending I wasn’t there. A common lie among photographers.
Then she stopped.
Not in fear, but in protest.
She looked down at me the way someone might look at a spilled drink that claims it’s a mirror.
And just before she flew off—not hurried, not scared, just finished—
she gave me a look that said:
I hope your autofocus fails at the exact moment I do something interesting.
Moral: Some birds fly off. Others leave curses in their wake.
Couplet:
She paused, struck a pose, then gave me the eye—
“May your autofocus fail and your batteries die.”
The Yellow-fronted and the Audacity of Cameras
The Woodpecker and the Man with the Camera
A fable with barbs, balance, and barely hidden contempt
A Yellow-fronted Woodpecker clung to the side of a tree, working like someone who’d already put in a full shift before dawn.
She tapped with purpose, paused to listen, and stabbed with precision. Her tongue was barbed. Her patience was not.
She ignored me at first. I wasn’t loud—I was just holding still and pretending I wasn’t there. A common lie among photographers.
Then she stopped.
Not in fear, but in protest.
She looked down at me the way someone might look at a spilled drink that claims it’s a mirror.
And just before she flew off—not hurried, not scared, just finished—
she gave me a look that said:
I hope your autofocus fails at the exact moment I do something interesting.
Moral: Some birds fly off. Others leave curses in their wake.
Couplet:
She paused, struck a pose, then gave me the eye—
“May your autofocus fail and your batteries die.”