Colony

Jess and I picnicked Thanksgiving afternoon at a prairie dog town south of Kearney. Some of their holes were simply holes; others, the ones used for sentry duty, looked like little Vesuvii on the prairie.

The prairie dogs themselves kept mostly out of sight, but their usual paths of travel were readily discernible in the grass.

These were the only well-beaten paths; in an hour and a half, only one vehicle passed nearby. No complaints from us; we enjoyed the quiet and solitude as much as we enjoyed the afternoon sunshine, and the sausage, cheese, dates, and apple cider that were our Thanksgiving dinner.

Had we had more time, we might have hidden under the only nearby tree, a red cedar, and waited for photos of the town's residents; as it was, there was hawking to be done, so we took our leave and presumably the colony returned to its normal routine under the Nebraska sky. (A sky that from time to time brings golden eagles and ferruginous hawks, so being underground is part of the routine, too, I suppose.)