Our back deck is now a neighborhood hangout for birds. With winter here, and the bears sleeping, I set up a new feeding station on our back deck. Within 24 hours of hanging a fly-through feeder filled with black oil sunflower seeds, I sat on the other side of our sliding glass door and watched birds alight on the feeder, or the rail, or the wooden planks beneath.
First the cardinals came. A dusky brown female with a flame orange beak inspected the new feeder from the deck rail it’s attached to. She cocked her head left and right, then hopped onto the wire mesh and dipped her head to pull out a seed. Then another. And another.
Next came a black-capped chickadee, small and round as a smoke grey tennis ball, with a smart black cap and a tiny triangle beak. It watched the mama cardinal from the rail before it hopped onto the feeder as well.
Then a male cardinal arrived and strutted scarlet along the white rail. Then another arrived. A few more males and females lined up on the rail. Their crests pointed to the sky, the black patches on their faces like little masks. They watched from the limbs of the oak that are just a few feet away from our deck. They dipped down to the feeder then flitted back up to the safety of their branches, streaks of bright red, pops of flame orange.
A tufted titmouse arrived, smaller than the cardinals, but longer and leaner than the chickadee. It had a jaunty little grey crest and a secret blush of orange under its wings.
Next came the mourning doves, crash landing onto the floor of the deck, four times the size of the cardinals, and with as much grace as my favorite, goofy pelicans who land in dramatic splashes on the surface of the sea. Once landed, the doves tucked their sprawling wings, bobbed their heads like their pigeon kin, and pecked seeds scattered from the rail above.
I sat at the table for probably an hour watching these funny animals. I don’t know what it is about getting old and watching birds, but it has happened to me, and I will own it. They bring me great joy. I feel peace when I watch them. Calm. The birds are real. They are themselves. They are true and natural. They are striking in their coloring, their body sizes, their beak shapes, and the long history of survival that led to their specific adaptations. I love watching their behavior: how they interact with the feeder, how they position themselves to have cover from prey, how they defer (chickadees) or how they dominate (blue jays, crows), who’s adventurous and will go first (cardinals), who will follow when it seems safe (doves), who will show up when everyone else has left (finches).
Later in the day, after I’d left the table and was no longer thinking about the birds, I saw our cat’s tail swish on our son’s bed as I walked by his open door. I poked my head in to see what Tubbles was flicking her tail about. She crouched on his bed, her front paws on the window sill, riveted to the activity at new feeder, which she could see from his window. I lay down on my stomach next to her and we watched the birds together.
Butterfly Mind 