Tea and Ten O'Clock

I find it easier to bird watch while seated at my dining room table drinking a mug of tea. It's more comfortable, for one thing, on these 30° mornings, and the birds can't see or smell or hear me while I'm behind the glass panes of my patio door. This morning, while nursing some steaming English Breakfast tea, I watched to see how the avian life has changed in the past two months.

The first bird I saw, of course, was a brazen blue jay, sweeping from the patio roof to drink from the bird bath on the deck railing, his wings and tail feathers spread out like a kite. The robins, newly arrived from some undisclosed southern location, were still more timid, and all week the mockingbirds have been chasing them from every corner of our yard. Their feathers flash like Semaphore flags as they fly.

Grackles then rose past the deck in an Air Force-like formation, and a red-winged blackbird preened his wings in our neighbor's tree, his ruddy shoulders flashing like air traffic control signals. I could hear the doves and a woodpecker, but it took a half-hour for the dove to appear on the garden fence. The woodpecker, however, remained hidden for the morning.

I was surprised to find no goldfinches, pine siskins, or black-capped chickadees, but then I remembered that they like food, and the birdfeeders out my dining room window are empty. A glance through the kitchen window, and I found them congregating on the feeders hanging from the clothesline.

With my tea drained and ten birds identified, I left the warmth of my dining room to walk among the neighbors who live in my backyard. I usually ramble through my yard in the evenings, and this morning walk was quite different. The birds were more active at this time of day, fighting for nesting space in our ash and cedar trees like pioneers in the midwest land rush. English sparrows bother my neighbor's tree and a starling couple bickers over the suet, the female finally winning out and eating first. A red squirrel bustled across the roof of the garden shed, skittish after a close encounter with the wookiee's front paw on Saturday.

But the active members of the garden aren't the only signs of life. The crocuses glowed in the morning sunlight, soon to be hidden again in the shade of the chimney on the north side of our house. The pussywillow buds cracked through the tips of the branches like warm, fuzzy snowflakes. The grass is still bleached from the harsh winter, but green leafy arrows shoot like promises from every flowerbed in the yard.

Two months ago, I dreaded the spring. But today, I think maybe its vibrant embrace will cushion the discomfort of another transition.

:31°F:
:clear and sunny skies: