january in the garden
It is morning.
Robin is following me and Paddy Pup around the garden.
He flutters from tree to tree.
Occasionally he comes down from the banches and alights on the ground beside me.
He keeps a wary eye on Paddington.
In my heart of hearts I don't think Paddy would chomp a robin.
Although you never know with that dog.
In any case Robin is disinclined to risk it.
He's been following us carefully for ten minutes.
"Okay," I tell him. "I'll get you some madeira cake."
I go back into the house, purloin a few slices of the Dad's cake from the kitchen, and return to the garden.
There is a veritable Noah's ark of the bird kingdom waiting for me when I get back outside.
It's as though Robin has told them good things are coming.
The starlings are grouped on the apple tree, giving the occasional cheeky chappy whistles.
The blackbirds have come sprinting from the hedge and are watching me now from among the rose bushes.
Alone among the birds, the blackbirds are graceful runners.
They fly good too.
Willie Wagtail is in situ on the clothes line, bobbing about like a drunken sailor on a drunken sea.
The crowkins are posited further back on the glasshouse roof.
The crows will scare off the other birds if I turn my back.
I scatter some madeira.
From nowhere a group of tits emerge to dive on it.
They don't wait for me to scatter a second handfull.
They don't ask permission from anyone.
They know their entitled.
Because they're Great Tits.
Arf, arf.
Oh that one will never get old.
Robin meanwhile is busy arguing with a second robin who wants to move in on the action.
"There's enough for everyone Robin," I tell him.
He turns and grabs a piece of madeira the size of his head.
The second robin gets a bit too.
There is a general clamour of wingbeats and twittering.
(And twits. - Paddy Pup note.)
Oh great open aired theatre of life.
You know it's true.
There are consolations in the creation gentle readers.
The birds have their madeira cake.
I have the birds.
All of us have each other.
Robin is following me and Paddy Pup around the garden.
He flutters from tree to tree.
Occasionally he comes down from the banches and alights on the ground beside me.
He keeps a wary eye on Paddington.
In my heart of hearts I don't think Paddy would chomp a robin.
Although you never know with that dog.
In any case Robin is disinclined to risk it.
He's been following us carefully for ten minutes.
"Okay," I tell him. "I'll get you some madeira cake."
I go back into the house, purloin a few slices of the Dad's cake from the kitchen, and return to the garden.
There is a veritable Noah's ark of the bird kingdom waiting for me when I get back outside.
It's as though Robin has told them good things are coming.
The starlings are grouped on the apple tree, giving the occasional cheeky chappy whistles.
The blackbirds have come sprinting from the hedge and are watching me now from among the rose bushes.
Alone among the birds, the blackbirds are graceful runners.
They fly good too.
Willie Wagtail is in situ on the clothes line, bobbing about like a drunken sailor on a drunken sea.
The crowkins are posited further back on the glasshouse roof.
The crows will scare off the other birds if I turn my back.
I scatter some madeira.
From nowhere a group of tits emerge to dive on it.
They don't wait for me to scatter a second handfull.
They don't ask permission from anyone.
They know their entitled.
Because they're Great Tits.
Arf, arf.
Oh that one will never get old.
Robin meanwhile is busy arguing with a second robin who wants to move in on the action.
"There's enough for everyone Robin," I tell him.
He turns and grabs a piece of madeira the size of his head.
The second robin gets a bit too.
There is a general clamour of wingbeats and twittering.
(And twits. - Paddy Pup note.)
Oh great open aired theatre of life.
You know it's true.
There are consolations in the creation gentle readers.
The birds have their madeira cake.
I have the birds.
All of us have each other.
posted by heelers | 5:59 PM
5 Comments:
That was not unlike our garden this morning except we're in the dead of winter.
Starlings are one thing but a robin?? or two?
I didn't give them anything to eat because they were quite happy with the teeny little crab apples on "William" the tree.
I would gladly ship you all the starlings I can find. They sweep through and eat everything they can find: seeds, shells, plastic bits of birdseed bags, etc. :)
My birds have gone through two bags of seeds so far this winter. (And some of the squirrels helped.)
Our robin is actually a thrush that migrates south for the winter. Once in Detroit on a late winter day, one was singing on a bare tree at Wayne State University. People literally stopped, looked and listened. And those who didn't stop were smiling and made comments like "Spring must be coming."
Adrienne, I love the robins because the red on their breast reminds me of the blood of our Lord. When I see more than one robin, I am reminded of the abundance of God's grace.
MissJ, I didn't like the starlings at first. They're so brash. But I got fond of them. And the crows are bullies but they too play their part and are entitled to their share. Hey. An atheistic doctor who went to Medjugorje to study the supposed visionaries told Randall Sullivan of Rolling Stone magazine, that he had a conversion to God, not because of the visionaries themselves but because every day just as the visions started a vast flock of birds outside the church fell silent. This story speaks to my spirit.
J
Ah, James, I see why you must grow fond of starlings. They're your feathered mascots, you brash thing. :)
I read your bit about pondering forgiveness. I agree with your mother about it not being coincidence. The Holy Spirit has great timing and a delicate touch, doesn't He?
MissJ, he does.
J
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