Jim’s at it again; angry, swearing, ruffling feathers. I know it’s his tree, he tells us all every morning. Just wish, once, he was in tune.
Jim’s at it again; angry, swearing, ruffling feathers. I know it’s his tree, he tells us all every morning. Just wish, once, he was in tune.
All winter, our editors toiled in the darkness of their snowbound cave, their ears casting about for birdsong. Hark! Is that a contributor?