The elusive chickadee

The black-capped chickadees have found my yard, but they flit and flutter and move and jump so much, it's almost impossible to catch a picture of them.  But here's one from the evening, and my extra photo is from the morning. 

“He's a funny one," said Ida. "Here's how he sound." She pursed her lips and, expertly, imitated the red-winged blackbird's call: not the liquid piping of the wood thrush, which dipped down into the dry tchh tchh tchh of the cricket's birr and up again in delerious, sobbing trills; not the clear, three-note whistle of the chickadee or even the blue jay's rough cry, which was like a rusty gate creaking. This was an abrupt, whirring, unfamiliar cry, a scream of warning -congeree!- which choked itself off on a subdued, fluting note.” - Donna Tartt