December 12, 2016
It has snowed for at least three days in a row. Lovely, pure, white snow dressing up the trees and illuminating what was dull and gray before.
The birds come to our feeders in happy, brisk, little flights. Some come solo, others arrive in tiny flocks that seem to take turns. Seeing them makes me realize how much my eyes have already missed seeing colors beyond gray and brown.
I see them now as my flower garden of winter. Even those birds with colors that blend into the background belong in this garden and delight my eyes. Of course, it is the cardinals and blue jays who provide the brightest colors, who seem to know and enjoy their status. Through my window I can scarcely keep up with the brilliant red male cardinals and the equally beautiful, reddish-brown and cream females. In the space of a breath, I count 7 males around and in the feeder, and as I check my count, they move again, rearranging, coming and going in short, flirty flights. Where there were 7, there are 4, then 8, then 2, and it is dizzying trying to be sure of their numbers. For a moment, there are equal numbers of males and females, and just as quickly, they scatter back to the trees or hop out of sight into the reddish and leafless dappled willow nearby.
Both cardinals fluff their feathers, their wind-driven mohawks blowing this way and that, changing their expressions from noble to condescending toward those non-red birds around them. Sometimes, though I don't believe they know it, those magnificent crests blow sideways, creating an absurd, juvenile delinquent appearance. Yet I imagine they are the roses of the winter garden, flaunting themselves as they feed, knowingly brilliant against the new, white snow.
The junco, with his black and white pattern, enjoys the seeds that drop into the snow beneath the feeder. He is unlike any flower that comes to mind, but he is part of the winter garden, nonetheless, his bright eyes and tilting head seem to communicate a friendliness similar to that of the chickadee.
And, in all seasons, chickadees abound, zipping about and calling happily to each other and anyone who is out and about on this snowy day. With their black caps and white stripes, they settle on perches from top to bottom of the tube feeder, blooming up and down the stem of the swaying column.
Interspersed with the chickadees, the finches are the very thistles they partake of in late summer and fall. The purple-red of their heads and breasts vary from bird to bird, but they arrive in abundance, chattering their finch-speak at each other and themselves. Briskly they rearrange themselves over and over, tiny feet like curling vines, cling to each perch.
Among these are deceptively drab finches, only the slightest hint of the sundrop yellow they will become when spring arrives again. Smudges of dark, stony mustard are the clue I must look for to know who they are. Every winter they are incognito, making me wonder year after year why the cardinal does not also go undercover? The goldfinches draw no attention to themselves, like the small, muted flowers of moonbeam coriopsis, but so much dimmer. Their golden lights are hushed and muffled, but I know who they really are. Inside, their hearts are small suns, waiting to join the spring celebration when the earth has tilted and turned to face our own life-giving sun again.
Tufted titmouse and the nuthatches both hop vertically, tails pointing up and beaks down, defying gravity, behaving as if they are on a strict timeline and might be called away any second now. The tufted titmouse has its, "tuft," or crest upright, alert for changes in the wind.
The red-bellied woodpecker has just arrived at the suet feeder. He wears his handsome, black and white chevron cape and his bright, orange hat, set at a jaunty angle on the back of his head. He is more of a rarity, like the midsummer tiger lilies that I prize, for I have so few.
Replacing the red-bellied are the smaller downy and hairy woodpeckers. They are the sweetest little birds with their fluffy markings in black, white, and tiny orange or red patches. They attend both the suet and the seed feeders, seeming to be tentative little flowers, uncertain of their place in the seemingly random schedule of bird-blooms.
Aggressively beautiful, the blue-jays sweep in and everybody else disappears. Their brilliant blue, patterned with white and black, is a welcome sight for color-starved eyes. They are large and showy flowers of winter, confidently stealing center stage from the others.
They are a moving garden, to be sure, but they bloom with no effort on my part, save for adding the seed, and they change constantly. I have no gardening tools, nor a part to play in which will bloom or when. I can enjoy the entire garden from the comfort and warmth of my home, and though I have no, "green space," I have an active and ever-changing garden scene inside my own, personal snow globe.
T.
