at my open screen door, in search of Mama.
I come into the living room (from the kitchen), we exchange glances for a moment, and he beats a hasty retreat. I am not Mama. . . .
Meantime, finches gather 'round the four birdbaths in my garden and splash about and share the latest birdland gossip.
How are the critters in your neck of the woods? I live in a wood.