It went like this: the first time I saw a blackbird, it clearly saw a threat in me. Barely managed two shots.
May afternoon in town. Quiet street, someone’s yard with wrought-iron railings. I see a blackbird — just as it should be: black, yellow beak, staring straight at me. I raise my camera, click twice — and that’s it. The blackbird’s gone. It jumped to the ground and hopped into the bushes. Didn’t flap its wings. Didn’t fly. Just jumped and hopped into the bushes. In the second photo, it’s just coiling up for the jump.
Didn’t expect that. Otherwise, I’d have been better prepared — say, pulled out my 300mm lens. Apparently, blackbirds think: flying is for long distances. To reach the bushes, you can just hop on your own two feet.
Well, that’s how it goes. The last photo is simply a cropped version of the first one, so you can get a better look at this expert in bush-hopping.
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