Bird School
When my kids were growing up and we would pass a gathering of birds on an overhead wire, they said it was bird school. These days, I am the one in bird school.
During the pandemic, I’ve grown even fonder of the birds in my yard. Our lives are so very local now. Sometimes this feels constraining, but it also offers me a chance to deepen my connection to place.
My yard is full of humble birds. Abundant red and yellow finches, sparrows and juncos frequent the feeders and the fountain. Bushtits and oak titmice visit, and an occasional phoebe. I am missing the song of the mockingbird, but I know it will return. Pushy blue scrubjays use their beaks to sweep the less desirable millet off of the feeder ledge in search of sunflower seed gold. I am especially fond of the awkward mourning doves, who collect the blue jays’ scattered millet. I love their gentle coos, their pairings, the funny way they regain their balance when they land on a wire. A large urban flock of wild turkeys wander through the front yard, raising their prehistoric heads to peek through my window. The first robin visited last week. I’ve come to recognize the call of the hummingbirds and love to spot them resting. And of course the crows. I’ve been trying to befriend and lure them with peanuts in the shell, but the crows are clearly in charge of their own timing.
Recently it was time for the annual cutting back of the yards. I always drag my feet on this one because I enjoy watching the birds gleaning the winter shrubs and garden. I wonder what they will do when the bushes and grasses are cut back. And every year, they return to glean new spaces that are revealed when the old, dead growth from last year is cut away. A bird school lesson from these divine messengers. What needs to be cut back? What might be revealed? What is there still to glean in the winter gardens of our lives?