In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees where the wind-bird with its white eyes shoves and pushes among the branches. Like any of us he wants to go to sleep, but he's restless— he has an idea, and slowly it unfolds from under his beating wings as long as he stays awake. But his big, round music, after all, is too breathy to last. So, it's over. In the pine-crown he makes his nest, he's done all he can. I don't know the name of this bird, I only imagine his glittering beak tucked in

359 reactions · 53 shares | After big wind gusts tore through the “Blue Hole” for hours last night, we weren’t sure what the state of the park would be today. The trees stood firm, and other than masses of pine needles under the Ponderosas, not even the scree was blown off the trails. @smithrockpark . . . #smithrock #smithrockstatepark #traveloregon | SmithRock.com | Facebook