Notes from the bushes
Nine hundred photos of the same Chestnut Bee Eater and I regret nothing. Bee Eater 412 was really working the light.
I wake up at the crack of dawn to sit like a log and wait for a duck to do literally anything interesting.
My camera gets royal treatment. I buckle it in the front seat like it's a newborn.
The rule of bird photography: the second you put your camera down, a Malabar Grey Hornbill shows up and locks eyes with you in silent judgement, and will immediately vanish the moment you reach for your lens.
I've mastered a stealth crouch-walk that fools zero birds and roughly one very concerned neighbor.
Crows hold grudges and remember faces. I'm currently on thin ice with at least two of them for reasons I still don't fully understand.
I can identify forty species of bird at a glance but still lose my own shoes every single morning.
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