There are tiny yellow warblers eating up all the sunflower seeds in our patch outside the kitchen. They dangle like acrobats, stuffing their gobs with insects and seeds each morning while it’s still cool.
On the other side of the house, a lavender-blue hummingbird no bigger than my thumb drinks nectar out of the blooms on the tree near my office.
A raven clatters and crows in the dying aspen, next door.
Some people think that the presence of birds indicates the presence of spirit. If so, I am surrounded by winged messengers.
This house is a sanctuary for bees and butterflies and moths and all kinds of birds.
I find it meditative to watch birds – to observe any kind of natural life – it forces me to slow down and become present. It gets me out of my head and into my body. I feel connected to that life outside my window. To the clouds and the sound of crickets.
To all of it.
So, I sit, in the morning light cataloging birds.
I learn their names; I learn what they eat.
Tanagers like ripe clementines. Others, bread, suet, birdseed. Most seem to enjoy a banquet of insects. Ants, in particular, are in large supply. Also, sunflower seeds, worms, grub, buds.
There’s something about this sort of life that has pulled at the edges of my soul for as long as I can remember. The quiet. The solitude. The umbrella of old oaks and junipers out back. The fence falling down. The lonely cry of a horse.
Here, I feel like I can breathe.
I feel surrounded by kindness, openness, bright air.
I feel like a caged bird who finally got free.
© 2016 Shavawn M. Berry All rights reserved
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