Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall – Snow Brings Birds to the Window

    Friday, I measured six inches of snow on the ground. With a forecast of high temperatures ranging from thirteen to thirty-five for the next ten days, we figured bears were finally hibernating. We could feed birds without attracting a bear to the deck.

    Spence fetched the plastic bird feeder, poured sunflower seeds into a half gallon bucket, and stepped outside without putting on winter gear. Snow crunched under his shoes, and suction cups squeaked against the sliding glass door. He filled the feeder with seeds and waved to me through the window.

    Maybe we'd waited too long to feed the birds.

    I sat in the Adirondack chair near the wood stove, wrote notes in holiday cards, and waited for birds to find the seeds.

    Two hours later, a thud drew my attention to the window. A titmouse gazed back at me from the feeder. The titmouse speared a seed with its beak and flew away. A chickadee zoomed in.

    Within an hour, a winter-mix flock of about two dozen titmice, chickadees, and juncos cued on wisteria vines and tomato cage wires to take turns snatching seeds.

    We hadn't waited too long to hang the feeder.

    With effort, I ignored the winged ballets outside and wrote more notes.

    Thud.

    Imagining a chickadee with broken neck, I put my pen on the table and forced myself to check the snow on the deck. No dead bird. Instead a pair of titmice pecked seeds from both sides of the feeder. I admired snow capped flower pots and watched for where birds hit the glass so that I could tape a Christmas card in that spot.

    As if walking on a tightrope, a chickadee on a tomato cage wire stepped to the right, stepped to the left, then flew towards the feeder. The chickadee banged into the plastic perch, dropped to the deck, and shook its whole body. After staring at the feeder, the chickadee made a second attempt, landed on the perch, and snatched a seed.

    Thud.

    A male cardinal bumped into the roof of the feeder. Attempting to squeeze between the roof and perch, he crashed into the roof again. On his third try, he slipped in soundlessly.

    Birds weren't bashing their brains on the window. They were adjusting flight patterns to land on the perch.

    I could relax.

    But my cat George crept to the sliding glass door and crouched.

    Perhaps he'd scare this year's flock.

    With ears twitching and tail swishing, George followed incoming and outgoing flights with his head. When two juncos hopped on the deck to gather fallen seeds, George pounced on the window.

    The juncos didn't flinch at George's thud. They pecked seeds and played tag in the snow.

    George, inside the window, hadn't scared birds.

    I sighed, and Spence said, “Just relax. They'll all live happily ever after.”