Fog and birdsong

Last month after daybreak while journaling, I first heard the five part call of the male mourning dove. If I didn’t have a dental appointment this morning, I could take time to thumb through my last journal to nail down the date.

Let’s say sometime mid-March.

Appropriately, this foggy morning, the male’s call comes from the giant maple tree my late husband planted some thirty-four years ago.

A mere twig back then when we built this house, the sapling survived Mel’s lawnmower, Nature’s drought, and all manner of foot traffic during the ten years I operated a lavender farm for the public.

The tree flourished to provide a canopy of shade where I later placed a swing for two underneath the tree’s canopy.

I’d purchased the swing in Kentucky, my birthplace, and brought it home.

Birds soon discovered this new addition to the landscape and perched on the upper crossbar of the swing.

This memory breaks a smile on my face, for when Mel sat in the swing, he’d hold onto the crossbar with one hand and gaze upon his fresh-mowed lawn.

Since the dove’s call announcing Spring’s arrival, it seems the birds of Addison Township have flown in: one, two, or three species at a time.

Not a devoted birdwatcher, Mel’s binoculars lay neglected by the chicken chair in the kitchen, the most excellent indoor location to birdwatch in comfort.

Perhaps someday I’ll devote time and memory to learning bird species, their songs, behavior and habitat.

Yet, honestly, when I observe the present condition of my flower gardens, birdwatching and study slides down my list of priorities.

I enjoy the red breasted robin nonetheless when the male and female come bob, bob, bobbing along, pecking on grass, and extracting worms from the earth.

How resourceful!

And the first sight of the tuft of red feathers and black mask of the cardinal stops me in stride. Then the bluebird arrives. And the chickadee.

Indeed, as Louie Armstrong sang, what a beautiful world!

As I keep mousers around and want my feathered friends high above on a tree branch where my aging cats don’t have a chance to catch them, I don’t feed birds.

Yet, I maintain two birdbaths in my backyard gardens, and one in the front yard’s perennial island.

There’s no better entertainment in Nature than watching a bird bathe on a hot, humid day.

At times, it seems our local birds invite their extended families to my home. They’ll soon be flying in for fruit hanging on the crabapple tree in the front yard’s flowering island.

Dear Reader, this official, foggy opening of birdsong season offers a pleasant diversion from babysitting the trays of Blackberry Lily seeds I planted three weeks ago in the basement. No sign of a single sprout.

However, my feathered visitors return in the aftermath of torrential downpours upon my little house and gardens.

Oh! There’s a cardinal, dressed in red feathers and his black mask, singing “cheer, cheer, cheer!”

Indeed, Mr. Armstrong, what a beautiful world.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com