An Ace of Crows

Despite the blustery wind and snow today I’ve enjoyed watching nature through my windows. When I saw a single crow on the ground across the pond I wondered why we didn’t use birds as suits of cards.

An Ace of Crows

Instead of hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs, why not crows, geese, turkeys, and ducks? This morning I drew an ace of crows, a two of geese, and a two of ducks in the backyard! But so far, no turkeys, though we often see wild turkeys in this neighborhood.

In front of the house I drew too many goldfinches to count, numerous chickadees, a few house finches, a nuthatch, and a single hairy woodpecker.

The wind is swinging and swaying the bird feeders to and fro outside my office window. Still the birds come and manage to land gracefully despite the feeders’ constant movement.

Time to Eat

It seems that there are times when all of the birds decide to visit the feeders at once. Both feeders have an endless succession of birds landing and birds being chased away while other birds wait in nearby the hydrangea branches. Then as quickly as they arrived, all the birds are gone, branches and feeders are bare again.

I watch them with great joy. So far I’ve heard of no concerns about continuing to feed birds despite the outbreaks of avian flu in our state. But I continue to monitor reports in case it turns out that the birds gathering at feeders might create a risk of spreading the disease among wild birds.

Time for Poetry

I perused my Mary Oliver poetry books this morning looking for a poem that expressed my feelings about this day and all of the beautiful birds that have graced my morning.

And I found this…

Mysteries, Four of the Simple Ones

 

How does the seed-grain feel

when it is just beginning to be wheat?

 

And how does the catbird feel

when the blue eggs break and become little catbirds,

 

maybe on midsummer night’s eve,

and without fanfare?

 

And how does the turtle feel when she covers her eggs

with the sweep of her feet,

then leaves them for the world to take care of?

 

Does she know her accomplishment?

 

And when the blue heron, beaking his long breast feathers,

sees one feather fall, does he know I will find it?

Will he see me holding it in my hand

 

as he opens his wings

softly and without a sound—

as he rises and floats over the water?

 

And this is just any day at the edge of the pond,

a black and leafy pond without a name

until I named it.

 

And what else can we do when the mysteries present themselves

   — Mary Oliver

May you walk in beauty.