The sky is pissing again.
Shouldn’t complain considering winter didn’t even start until just before the Super Bowl kick-off. But then it just flat got with it. Drifts. Wind-chill. Dead-chill. Frozen pipes. Deer in the haystacks. Deer dying on the road. A fawn over-nighting in the woodshed and raiding the birdseed. More snow coming. Calves dying before mothers could lick them dry.
Saw the ground for the first time in weeks days ago. But today it’s what the weather forecasters call a wintry mix. Down along the Front Range, it’s cancelled flights and bomb cyclones. With names. Last one was named Wesley. Dumbest thing ever to name snowstorms.
It’s April and the sky is pissing. Again. Hope for rain at the right time. Time it for desert quail, sync it to not fiddle with the Hun hatch, clock it just so with our friends the chukar and pheasant and their chicks a’coming. It’s April. Do it. Rain. Snow. Just get it over with. Don’t save it for later. Do it.
Mouthful of Feathers 
The grouse living off the end of my meadow continues his frustrating search for the drumming log still buried in snow. I flush him almost daily over my setter’s point and I’m happy he sticks around. We also found a couple of woodcock on a few patches of open cover — the ground seems frozen to me so I wondered what they’re eating? Then, two days ago, eight inches of new snow fell. It’s 28 degrees this morning and I wonder if those woodcock are alive. Yeah, lets get it over with.