As a girl, I looked forward to the song of feisty wrens as they squared off territory in our yard. The wild cherry tree seemed to be the prime spot, but there were bird baths, high-hanging houses and spruce branches enough for many, many birds, and my summer days were perennially marked by a cadence of bird song...noisy morning choruses, high-pitched protests from featherless, hungry chicks, and the twilight lullaby that settled with the roosting birds on the wooded hill behind our house.
I was fascinated by the grackle that would strut among the quack grass that was dotted with thistles in our sun-parched front yard. At a glance, the big birds appeared dull and black, but in the afternoon light, their feathers were magical...a dark, mysteriously shifting spectrum.
Along with not being able to see stars at night, songbirds are one of the things I miss most now that I live in a big city. Oh, I'm cordial enough with pigeons I meet and I've developed a tolerance (at best) for the lakeside gulls. Luckily, like the neighborhood park's geese, I am able to migrate north.
I remember peering through the kitchen window at the frozen world outside. Purple finches fluttering to and fro to wait for an open spot at the thistle feeder. Jays, cardinals, chickadees and a myriad of other feathered wings danced on the wind and came to rest on the ground below. Tiny prints left in the snow evidenced their search for the cast off tidbits from the feeders above. What vivid beauty, grace and color they grant all who choose to watch them in the dead of winter. Some memories of life escape us, but some are as close as the scent of a fresh fallen snow and the sight of birds on the wing.
ReplyDeleteI was listening to MPR as I read this lovely post as I became aware that I was listening to stories about what famous people ate and this story was just then being told:
ReplyDeleteThe former French President François Mitterrand decided when he was dying to stop taking medication and concentrate on his last nosh up. This consisted of two dozen oysters, capon in cream and then roasted ortolan, the tiny songbird that is consumed whole in one large bite, bones, beak and all.
The bird was eaten with a napkin over the head to protect the consumers identity , since eating the small song bird was illegal.
Talk about a strange dissonance.