What I investigate out of my window on this brisk, bright winter Sunday morning is no less than simple elegance in pure jamboree. I ponder, I spy, and I worship here.
Small birds are sitting in the naked trees. They patiently await their turn at this morning’s window offerings.
They perch upon gray branches that extend no less than two feet from my desk. They appear to me as sacred ornaments, red, blue, black, brown, they glisten on the ledge, inches from my nosy eyes.
My objects of reverence are a blustery and flighty troop. They consider my humanity with tiny, bright, perfectly rounded eyes.
They take what I leave for them, the way a child “takes,” without thought, with only a delighted kind of timely discovery.
There is a tiny velvet finch that is particularly “dapper.” This little one is feisty and self-respecting.
As I write this, I am observing the refined throat of a supple brown dove; I can feel the seed go down my own throat.
The Carolina Wren is here feasting this morning, she pecks at small seeds, and she is chubby and cheerful. I read somewhere that she mates for life.
The sharp, orange beak of a podgy red bird (Cardinal) selects a large black and white striped sunflower seed; he flies away with his mouth full.
Here comes my favorite, (if it possible to claim a favored one) this appears to be a “Pileated Woodpecker” he is a grand delight for me. His cap is redder than red “should be” I am energized. He is shameless in his vividness.
Here is Mother Cardinal, she is especially industrious. She is the color of the naked branches. The only hint of her true identity is the blush of orange/red that is lovingly painted upon her crest and wings by the indisputable hand of the Great Mother. She is protected by her cheerless color. Her spring babies will have a fine chance of survival here in this tree. I will watch for them. Although by that time, this tree will be far too leafy, she will eat from the earth, she will forget my scattered “window” seeds, she will disappear within the greenery with her family.
The large black cat “Salem” sits on the sofa across from my desk, he is ever watchful, sometimes he stirs, when he does, his bell rings. With disgust, he settles back down into the cushion, he blinks at me, then, he gets lost in his “watching” once again. At my desk, I daydream, for this witch often hankers to run with wolves and to fly with sparrows.
On my desk, sits a little pot of Yellow Primrose that I brought home from the market last night, it whispers of springtime. Simple elegance decorates my humble life, I am blessed.