Every Cedar Waxwing is the penultimate waxwing. Even though I think each image I snap in March or April will be the last of the season, invariably, another flock of waxwings descends for a photo op.
It starts with a whistle, but a whistle so faint it’s a whisper across the leaves. And then the sound of raindrops, but it’s not rain. It’s the patter of falling berries, pyracantha and holly, dropping into the blanket of debris below the trees.