WEST CENTRAL MISSOURI — Most of the day hadn’t been very good. The fencerows were empty for miles and miles. There wasn’t even one Harris’s Sparrow. A few American Tree Sparrows skulked and scattered. The stockyards were empty of blackbirds. The pines at Schell-Osage didn’t even yield a kinglet, let alone Red-breasted Nuthatches or Long-eared Owls. On the other hand, we (Charley and I) saw plenty of Red-headed Woodpeckers doing their dramatic aerial displays.

Aside from the thousands of Snow Geese at Schell-Osage (an wondrous sight, don’t get me wrong), waterfowl were scarce. We couldn’t find a single Ross’s Goose, and ducks were limited to a few of the most common species.

Raptors were uncooperative too, except for the eagles at Schell-Osage. The lone rough-leg was in the sun and flying away. The lone Prairie Falcon flew fast and straight and never allowed us good looks, despite our speeding after him down a gravel road. And for all we knew, there wasn’t a Golden Eagle for 500 miles.

We ended the day at Prairie State Park and decided to stay and look for Short-eared Owls. As the sun set, a few prairie-chickens flew overhead.

We parked by the side of the road and got out to wait for owls. The prairie was full of harriers. Apparently there was a roost on the prairie over a hill from us, and they kept arriving and circling. I don’t think I’d ever seen that many in one place before.

Then something different appeared. The wingbeats caught my eye first of course; the stiff, odd rhythm is decidedly un-harrierlike and identified the bird at some distance. The owl came closer — pale, big-headed, mothlike — and zigzagged across the prairie. More short-ears arrived, and Charley and I took turns following them with the scope and watching with our binocs.

I happened to look down the road and see a Great Horned Owl sitting in a tree. One of the short-ears saw it too and wasn’t happy. The smaller owl kept flying over and diving at the GHO, uttering its strange barking call. The GHO never budged.

Meanwhile, the crepuscular hunt continued. Sometimes the owls executed dramatic sweeps, turns, and dives down into the grasses. Sometimes they flew closer and closer, almost toward us. The frustrations of the day faded and softened. Darkness descended, and the great dance went on.

And so another year was gone.

GREENE CO., MO. — The sky blazed with colors whose names I do not know. The water snatched at them, broke them into millions of pieces, and shimmered with glee. Ducks came from all directions, gathering for the long dark night. They whistled overhead in twos and emerged from the sunset in lines and bunches. They preened and mingled on the water. A Pileated Woodpecker called from the other shore, then came, rowing through the air in regal black and white. The ducks kept coming.

The moon appeared in the gray east, immense and orange. It hung like an enormous ripe fruit, ready to fall — or perhaps, alone with thinnest clouds across its face, it stood like the last lord of a great and noble race, a mighty race that saw dreadful things — and was no more.

I looked for owls as I drove. Light was fading rapidly, but my eye caught a huge silhouette flapping, trying to land on a slender branch at the top of a hedgerow tree. I slammed on my brakes in the middle of the road and raised my binoculars as quickly as I could, afraid I would lose the chance. It was, it was — yes! — a Great Horned Owl!

A helpful pull-off presented itself, so I got out of the road to stare at the owl. A songbird bounced around in protest of its presence, but the owl did not pay either of us any mind. It surveyed the territory regally, alert and almost disdainful. After only a moment, it pitched forward and was off, huge, silent, powerful, and disappeared across the road, flying toward the great orange moon.

GREENE CO., MO. — Christmas carols are playing in the living room, and I can smell Mom’s sugar cookies baking. Later, there will be chili, candles, buttered crackers, polite laughter, stifled laughter, uncontrollable laughter, the Christmas story, and embarrassing snapshots all around. But at the moment, a flicker has all my attention.

What a wonderful bird she is — such an unlikely assortment of colors, shapes, and patterns! The gleaming red stroke on her nape echoes the black blaze across her breast. Her black eyes glitter from a plain brown, honest face. Each dramatic underspot is delicately fringed in white. She is feeding very intently; she pokes in the grass and drills rapidly in the ground, almost like a sewing machine. Occasionally she bounces erect, on the alert, looking and listening. Then, back to feeding. Her bill is caked with dirt.

The buxom doves waddle beneath the tray feeder, in and out of the already-lengthening house shadow. Far from drab, they too are colorful, exquisite creatures. Legs are bright pink; orbital rings are blue. Some feathers glow green and pink and gold — when the light is just right. Males’ crowns are washed with a delicate blue. One little dove is missing many feathers from her back and wings. She must have had some harrowing brush with death. I wonder if she can remember it. Waddle, waddle, peck, gulp, peck, peck, gulp.

This right here, this moment, is what I love about birding. I’ve seen thousands of doves and flickers, but still they enthrall me, draw me back one more time, make me look again, longer, with bigger eyes, with even more wonder and delight.

A pair of cardinals is dashing about the treetops, daddy in hot pursuit of mamma. It’s a lovers’ game — outsiders can only laugh. But that doesn’t matter. They are the outsiders.

GREENE CO., MO. — Suddenly, ten minutes past solstice, one bluebird started chattering, breaking nature’s silence. Two bluebirds answered the call, and juncos whirred into action. One landed right at my feet. A cardinal teeked insistently from the neighbor’s shrub, and before long robins began their worried cheeps from the trees in the woods behind us.

The faint glow in the east could not warm the frigid morning. My fingers burned. Breathing on them helped a little. As the sky slowly lightened, gray smudgy clouds burst into pink flame. Silhouetted doves and blackbirds slipped through the air high above, calling occasionally, or whistling with their wings. They seemed so … purposeful.

I have no idea where I’ll be this time next year. I’m flying hard and fast right now, straight toward May. But then? I don’t know. Do the grackles know where they’re going? When you cross the horizon, do you lose everything, or do you gain a whole new world?

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee. Reassuring, familiar. Another chickadee appeared, and the pair squeaked and tittered together, quivering with excitement. Light steadily increased, and others began dropping in to the feeders — goldfinches, nuthatches, titmice. A tiny creeper inspected the tree trunks. Seeeee. Timid creature. And the red-belly is the king. He swoops toward the feeder, and everyone else scatters. His crown is bright, and his laugh is hearty.

Then the neighbor and her beagle came out of the garage. “Not on my bush! Not on my bush!” she griped. I slipped around the corner of the house, hoping not to be seen. Don’t want people thinking you’re weird.

Later, I drove up to Fellows Lake. Seven goldeneyes rested on the water, not too far from shore. Two were males. They started to get all worked up, swimming alongside each other, stretching out their necks as if to see whose was longer. They threw their heads back onto their backs and opened their stubby bills. A moment later, their nasal, raspy buzzes reached me over the water. They repeated the ritual over and over, but the brown-headed females just seemed bored. It was, after all, the first day of winter.

A lone Bonaparte’s Gull drifted lightly over the lake, then plunged down into the water after some tasty morsel. An eagle soared high above, wings flat and still. A Red-headed Woodpecker tried to escape between the trees, but flashing white wings betrayed it. Bluebirds, chickadees, red-bellies, and juncos feasted on sumac fruits. A White-throated Sparrow hopped up in the undergrowth, showing off its brilliant colors. Canada Geese called from far across the water.