Feeding Time in Winter

At dawn, light climbs quickly over the houses across the way, reaching eagerly westward. The gray sky transforms before my eyes; the pink rays appear suddenly, then become a brilliant, beautiful crimson for that brief, glorious instant, just before the day arrives with all of its promise.

I watch, focused, as the birds flutter to and fro. Are they conscious of the Cooper’s Hawk, perched high above them in a Weymouth pine, waiting? Nearby, my coffee sits, steaming, temporarily ignored. The Sparrows are the bravest, brazenly mobbing the hanging plastic cylinder in sustained excitement, chirping wildly and loudly, their cacophony like an elementary school cafeteria. They fight and play, pushing one another from my ever-reliable feeder eagerly for one, two, three moments, moving on to let someone else have a go. Debris gathers on the snow beneath them.

In jumps a Chickadee, alone among these frenzied strangers, immersing himself easily in the crowd for a quick feast before he too steps aside; he’s learned the rules.

The Hawk sits, patient, looking about him with seeming indifference. But the Sparrows and their black-capped friend, they know better.

The wait continues.

The Crows are there, eying him, suspicious but passive; their nests are empty, so it’s not worth the trouble. Still, one flies by every now and then, cackling with disapproval.

Something startles the birds, snapping me back to the now. It’s only a Cardinal, a fat female pushing in and helping herself, stuffing the seeds in a bright orange beak made ever more stark against her pale feathers. Reaching her fill, she flies off, content.

The Sparrows come back, but without the Chickadee this time.

The Hawk is still there, preening his feathers, unaware that I am watching. He’s almost ready.
A squirrel sits off to the side a bit, frozen in place as the birds continue their pillage, hoping for his own chance to feed. Losing interest, he bounds away, in search of less crowded accommodation. The birds continue with their feasting, the hustle and bustle of their activity raising the din a few decibels more.

Glancing at the clock, I see it’s nearly time to go.

Reaching for my coffee, my eyes catch a flicker of movement, a split second before the scene outside my window explodes in a cloud of snow and feathers. The Cooper’s Hawk snags his prey from the feeder, the momentum of his rapid, skillful descent sending him beyond his catch and crashing violently into a rhododendron bush. Wings flapping wildly, weighted down by a breakfast clutched tight in mighty talons, he struggles momentarily to regain the security of flight, providing me a rare, intimate glimpse of this magnificent killer in all of his splendor.

Watching him go, returning to his fruitful perch to devour the unfortunate Sparrow, I wonder how long it will take for the victim’s friends to reappear, prepared to take their chances against death in exchange for easy pickings at the feeder. “Not long,” I chuckle sardonically, grabbing my coat and heading for the door. It’s winter, and they really haven’t much choice.

*This story originally appeared in the Reading Room section of the River Poets Journal website (www.riverpoetsjournal.com) from December 1, 2014 - March 31, 2015. The Reading Room is reserved for “flash fiction” pieces, which typically run about 1,000 words or less. A print version of River Poets Journal appears twice a year, with occasional special issues.