The leaves on the Bradford Pear tree are fluttering. Their movement in the Autumn breeze is so delicate that the tree itself appears light enough to lift. The Chickadee is hiding among the green and red tassels, watching for the woman in the window sipping green tea. There are glittering specks on her cheek that catch the early morning light. But he is more concerned with the little black seeds and his crop, which is not quite full. He is waiting for the fat, greedy tree scaler with the bottlebrush tail to finish thrashing the feeder so he can steal a few more seeds. She gobbles and glares. As if she didn’t have enough acorns, she has to eat all his food too.
The wren is singing again. The show-off. He snatches little crumbs of walnut and peanut butter and then bursts into song. He flashes his tail and prances from roof to feeder to perch to, WAIT, that’s my spot! Too close! Get out of my space! With a flash of his tail, he snatches an insect from the branch and flits away again with a trill of laughter. The woman is smiling.
“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!” He crunches and snaps the seed in his little beak. His friend, the titmouse and her sisters swoop and dive nearby. “Bee bee bee!” They shout while they delight in their aerial dance. Then, they are moving through the Sycamore top with precision. Their melodies are harmonies even when they are just laughing at each other. They distract him for a time. And then he begins to mourn her again.
She was light. When first he saw her on the feeder, she was new and fresh. Her black cap glistened, and her white cheeks fluffed. She was sorting the seeds as if they were meant to be counted. Her eyes were like beetle’s bottoms but filled with mirth. She turned her cheek to him and assessed, though he knew not what. But quickly she was off among the branches with her flock. He followed her because the look she gave was like a summer morning and the sun of her smile warmed him.
He won her heart and they made their nest. He watched and protected. He chased the hawk away with his brothers. He allowed no danger, no fear. And they found gladness in the leaves of the Bradford Pear. Their young grew and prospered. When she was hungry, he found food. When she shivered, he warmed. They were a unit, proud and glad. More, they were a family.
But she didn’t return that dusk. And when he searched, he found her near the road. He stayed for while, watching the feathers that no longer fluttered, the eyes that no longer saw. Her feet were clenched with nothing to perch on. She was still and there was no breath.
He stayed through the night and the morning, until the smoking machines shook the ground with their loud engines and cruel motors. He had to leave her there. Murders! Wretched monstrosities!
Mockingbird
The mockingbird has disrupted his thought. She lands on the branch above and surveys him with a tilt of her head. The tree is shivering as the cold winds blow. Her Gray Majesty of long tail and song has known loss too. Today she quips and chatters. But she knows the way of things. And with her staccato notes she tells the world the way it is and the way it will be.
“Loss and Life are the circle of things.
Crickets and peanuts and wanderlust dreams.
Winter and Summer erupt in their way.
Bonding and mating and fresh sprigs of hay.
Little pink mouths with a tongue that does sing,
Life is still filled with such beautiful things.”
The mourning dove alights on the bath and dips his toes in the water. He is watching, watching, watching and waiting, waiting, waiting. And when he is sure that no predator comes, he splashes and shuffles. His mate is nearby so he rushes and preens. The geese honk and fly over in formation. The season changes again.
The chickadee grabs a seed. “Chicka-dee-dee-dee!” Hunger is the driving force behind life. For now, the world moves in seasons as a frame of reference, but one day it will not be so. One day all grief will be gone, and sighing will linger no more. There will be everlasting light to fill eyes once full of tears. The Creator and Maker will shine joy and gladness and right all wrongs–death being most wrong of all. And maybe the chickadee will meet his mate again. Maybe they will dance and sing. Maybe they will just be still. Maybe they will look back and laugh.
The chickadee chomps his seed from the feeder and watches the woman in the window. “Thank you,” he says, and flies back to the Bradford Pear and his chattering leaves. Food is life. And life is still beautiful.
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