In the early winter mist along Bayou Lacombe, a Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) sings from the reeds, its shoulders flashing scarlet in the low, warm sun. The mist hangs soft over the water while the bird calls out, unseen by most, yet certain of its place in the waking world. There is something of a psalm in it, a small voice lifted before the world stirs, praise offered not because anyone is listening, but because it is time.
