A necessary errand in the cold

The temperature was about -3℉, and the windchill between -25℉ and -30℉, when we headed out a bit ago to get some bird seed. The metal trash can in the garage, that we use for rodent-proof storage, was down to a few crumbs. The cold spell has at least another week to go and we're not sure how many of this winter's seeds the chickadees and their buddies have already cached. It's not an ok time to stop feeding, so off we went for a 50 pound bag of coarse chipped sunflower seeds at the local feed and grain shop.

iced rim of heated bird bath - waterer

Photo by J. Harrington

As cold as it's been, we suspect the open water in the heated bird bath may be at least as helpful as sunflower seeds to the birds and squirrels in the neighborhood. This weekend, in fact, beginning today, it's the Great Backyard Bird Count. We haven't yet decided if we'll participate. We need to get a better idea if our collection of goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, cardinals, woodpeckers, etc. would add anything meaningful. This is, from our perspective, more a case of the mountains (birds) coming to Muhammad (feeders) and that doesn't feel quite right. We did see an all too infrequently glimpsed bird the other day as we were driving near the wetlands along County Road 36, a ruffed grouse. (No, it wasn't a hen pheasant.) There are few grouse around and we'd really like to see more of them and the even more rare woodcock.

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter 

    all the singing is in 

         the tops of the trees 

             where the wind-bird 

with its white eyes 

    shoves and pushes 

         among the branches. 

             Like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep, 

    but he's restless— 

         he has an idea, 

             and slowly it unfolds 

from under his beating wings 

    as long as he stays awake. 

         But his big, round music, after all, 

             is too breathy to last. 

So, it's over. 

    In the pine-crown 

         he makes his nest, 

             he's done all he can. 

I don't know the name of this bird, 

    I only imagine his glittering beak 

         tucked in a white wing 

             while the clouds— 

which he has summoned 

    from the north— 

         which he has taught 

             to be mild, and silent— 

thicken, and begin to fall 

    into the world below 

         like stars, or the feathers 

               of some unimaginable bird 

that loves us, 

    that is asleep now, and silent— 

         that has turned itself 

             into snow.

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