Bill's not dead- just desparate. These little wrens (or whatever they are), were all over these tall weeds near a creek bed picking at the bugs. It was quite comical. There were maybe a dozen of them all together. Most times they'd perch, peck, and quickly fly to the next weed. Occasionally one would land and the stalk would bend right over one way or another. Still, they'd do their job as if they were rightside up, release, drop down a couple inches, and then flit off to the next mini-adventure.