Today was one of those gray, somber winter days, with only earth tones comprising Mother Nature's palette, an appropriate mood for Edgar Allen Poe's birthday. Looking out into the woods from the breakfast table this morning the gray spectrum of the trees were only complimented by the brown oak leaves that have tenaciously clung to the limbs. But then a flash of red caught my eye, and I spotted this pileated woodpecker punctuating a tree, boring new holes in search of insect protein. “Quothe the pileated, ‘nevermore’” ---just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?
