sold!
I HAVE A LOVE-HATE relationship with the black birds of my neighborhood. They are crows, grackles, starlings and heaven knows what else. They are big and brassy and smart and bold, and they can - and do - empty the feeder in minutes.
The feeder is really too small for them, and if they manage to land directly on it, it tips, and tips them backwards - and yet they hang on. Sometimes, two will land on the feeder at the same time, and even out the weight. I always wonder if they plan this.
They bash and crash their wings with strength and bravado, trying to get close enough to clamp on with their claws. One bashed up against the screen this morning and hung there for a long moment, looking in, head tipped, bright eye seeming to study me.
I will leave the feeder empty for a few days, hoping the cloud of black birds will have gone to the other end of town and stayed there, and then I will creep out and fill it. The little birds will circle, eager, hungry, and flit on the feeder and get at least some to eat - and then the first of the black birds will show up. And somehow, by some communication, some sign, some knowledge, in moments, the whole cloud will arrive. And the food will be gone.
It is fascinating, to be sure. I love their intelligence, and the way they strut and stroll, as if they own the yard - and who is to say they don't? And who am I, anyways, to imply that the little brown birds are more important, more deserving, hungrier?
The world plays out on my feeder.
***
For Today
"I would rather die of passion than of boredom."
-
Vincent Van Gogh
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