Finished reading “A Year of Birds: At home on the North Platter River” by Annie Proulx.  Often, I don’t care for writing under the heading of “memoir.”  Perhaps, I should rephrase that, I don’t care for the the soul-baring-look-at-me-watch-as-I-display-everything-personal-and-raw-to-the-world memoir.  Proulx does none of that.  Her focus is on the birds: eagles, hawks, ravens, herons, gray jays, chickadees and many more.  She writes about the birds whom dwell along the cliffs and those that migrate in the fall and spring, their flights following the slow curve of the Platte.