"A blog is to a writer what a canvas is to an artist." ~ Colleen Redman

And Your Bird Can Sing

It’s April 16th and the butterfly count is two. Both were yellow swallowtails. The mountain bluebird count is one.  The forsythia blooms have come and gone and now I’m waiting for dogwood petals to wax full, like the moon.

The sound of an airplane overhead makes me homesick for my Hull, Massachusetts hometown peninsula, where the planes regularly fly in and out of Logan.  Blue jays are common there like red cardinals are here. I bird watch and listen to birdsong as an antidote to following the national news. I’m waiting for the bird from last year that my grandson Liam called “the most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen,” a rose-breasted grosbeak.

The chickadees, titmouse and nuthatch that live here year round are not afraid of me.  The purple and gold finches, and even the bossy cowbirds, are more skittish, so I mostly watch them from the window inside the house. 

When the squirrels raid the birdfeeder, I chase them with a broom like Mr. McGregor chased Peter Rabbit with a rake. The towhee is back and the robins are aloof.  I’ve taken to calling the mourning doves “cry babies.”  It’s funny how purple finches are really red and redbud trees are more purple-pink than red.

_______Our World Tuesday

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