Editorial
The Coming of the Reaper
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Pedaling on Clay Creek Drive a week ago, along the field, I caught a flash of yellow in the corner of my eye and turned to see a bobolink perched on a stalk in full-throated glory. He’s jet black with white shoulders and back, and a brilliant yellow cap. He nests with his mate in the tall grass of the hay field. If they are quick about it, they will fledge their family before the farmer comes for the hay. And this bobolink is precious, strutting his stuff as only the beautiful can, blissfully unaware of politics in Washington, refugees in the Middle East, and the coming of the hay reaper.



