My eyes gently open to the sound of birds outside my bedroom window. The March morning air was just beginning to glow pink and orange, and I breathe in deeply. Sunday morning. Smiling, I roll over, happy to realize the curse of Daylight-Saving time might just be easing.
Hoisting myself up to peer out the window, I glimpse exactly what I was hoping for – the squirrel-proof bird feeder lovingly hung many months ago was alive with birds: brown and yellow finches dive bomb each other for space on the two feeding perches, occasionally interrupted by the gentle mockingbird fighting for seed. Below, rooting amongst the anemones just starting to sprout and the pink tulips in their final burst of glory, I spy two lovebirds – doves that haven’t visited my garden since the squirrel invasion forced me to suspend all ground feeding months ago. Cooing happily, content in picking up the discards from the feeder above, they follow each other, side by side, from ground to tree top.
A desperate cry breaks the peaceful reverie; I scan the bare branches of the locust trees, but can’t spy the source. It must be a baby jay; like a newborn crying for its mother, the cacophony continues for minutes, then stops.
Downstairs, I hear his footfall down the hall, followed by the clink of the glass as he sets it on the counter. The back door opens and gently shuts, the tinkling of dog tags filtering through my open window.
With a flutter no louder than a hush, the birds flit to safety in the nearby lavatera bush. I know they’ll be back. Glancing out the window, I notice the feeder swaying on the hook is nearly empty, and I smile.
Sunday morning couldn’t have gotten off to a better start.