First thing every morning, I take out the bird feeders. Usually, there are goldfinches or cardinals waiting for me, perched forlornly on the railing of the deck or on the empty iron bracket where the feeders hang. I can hear the chickadees buzzing in trees through the still morning air to their cohort of nuthatches and woodpeckers.
I used to leave the feeders out all night, until one morning I found them lying in a twisted heap on the ground. Raccoons. The man at the feed shop confirmed it when I got a new feeder. I could either stay up all night, or I could take the feeders down and put them back out in the morning. Yes, it’s an annoyance but an unexpected blessing too. It has become a kind of spiritual discipline for me tending this small corner of Mount Vernon that I share with these often invisible, lives. The connections that go deeper than simply sharing the same space at the same time
I’ve noticed that the amount of seed the birds eat changes depending on the weather. On bitter cold days last winter, they could finish off half of the seed I put out, almost a full pound of it. On these warm days of early spring, business around here is not so brisk. And, I wonder if it is completely explained by nesting season or the increased sources of food available. Is there an element of anxiety involved? Do even the birds of the air, the very symbol of a carefree life, feel the edge of an uncertain future as I do at times?
In the morning when I hang the feeders back outside, the birds scatter for the trees. They will not come back until I am inside. I feel a reflexive twinge of disappointment as I stand at the kitchen window and watch them flock to the seed. The whole thing seems a metaphor as I fix my own breakfast, carefully measuring the oats into the boiling water on the stove. Isn’t this too the largess of a larger hand that feeds me just as the birds outside my window are fed by mine? And, if that is true, is God standing quietly on the fringes of my consciousness right now, so as not to frighten me as I am standing motionless by the patio doors while the oats cook, holding my coffee, not even daring to sip it, while the birds at the feeders joyously fill themselves with seed.
