14in x 20 in Original Watercolor. 

The Northern Flicker, that cinnamon-winged anarchist of the woodlot, does not simply court—he hammers his skull against metal gutters, stop signs, whatever rings like a cathedral bell, just to announce his hot-blooded intent. The drumming is not for food, but for sex, as old and desperate as spring itself. What’s remarkable is that both male and female will excavate their nesting cavity together, flinging chips of wood like quarrelsome carpenters. And then, unlike so many careless birds, they actually stick around, raising the brood shoulder to shoulder, in the kind of domestic partnership most poets only dream of between their fifth bourbon and the dawn.