Be Not Idle

I was an insomniac last night, so I saw the snow accumulating outside. The flakes were too fine to see in the dark, but they had a faint luster when gathered together on the ground. I flicked on the porch light at about 2 am.  The snow melted on the residual heat of the yard, but it had transformed the walk, drive and road into gleaming white paths.

A few inches covered everything when I rose. (Late in the morning, I must add.) I pulled on my gloves and grabbed shovel and broom. While working, I finally saw a few black squirrels.  Something must have gotten a taste for squirrelmeat, because over the course of a few weeks this fall, the neighborhood and the nearby town seemed deserted.  A young, skinny Eastern Gray squirrel began frequenting my yard a few weeks ago, but he was a regular gray, not the black variation that usually dominates. 

Note to regular readers: I recognize the irony of missing the very squirrels that pillaged birdfeeders and reduced suet blocks to claw-scraped nuggets last winter.  It just proves the old adage (and Hair Metal song chorus): You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. 

Shovelling snow is fun on an idyllic winter day. The sun shone brightly enough to melt the traces of snow I missed, and the dry air soaked up the water. Even the wind worked to my advantage, scattering the snowdust I swept from the car.   

I almost hated to sweep off the deck. The rounded snow blanket was almost perfect except for squirrel tracks and a small, mysterious trough.  The mystery didn’t last long: a junco landed in the too-deep snow and ploughed his belly through the drift. 

Juncos are dainty and black except for their white bellies. They’re not fearless like chickadees – is anything? – but they have gotten used to eating seeds on the deck.  One even hit the glass door (lightly) in his search for the usual rations.

After shovelling and sweeping, I made sure to spread a little lunch for them.

The next time I checked, there were two juncos on the deck – and 11 mourning doves. The biggest flock I’ve had so far numbered 18 individuals. It’s amazing to think that they were endangered when I was a child.

So far the feathered royal family hasn’t showed: seven pairs of blue jays.  A few have deigned to pose for photos (although no doubt making snide comments about paparazzi to their more retring friends, the cardinals).

The only bird I don’t like is the starling. Flocks of them arrive without warning, scattering even the chickadees. They’re like winged piranhas, eating as much as they can as quickly as they can. They’re supposed to be in warmer climes, but perhaps the long Indian Summer tricked them into staying. They gulped down corn, seeds, even a piece of plastic from the suet block! Then they took off.

I think a hawk scared them. There’s been one around here, off and on. I never notice her until she makes a funny squawk. It’s tempting to think of hawks screeching menacingly as they soar majestically through the sky. But they chirp like other birds.  The scariest-sounding bird in my yard is the titmouse. How a tiny bird makes such a loud chirrup, I can’t quite figure out.

I will miss this time when I return to work. It seems I’m so often caught up in mental chatter – “to do” lists, worries, and the like – that the beautiful details go unseen. 

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