I sew my scarves and the birds go to and from the feeder outside my window.
They roost all over the farm, the lilac bushes, the tree tops, the woodshed, the barn. Some come and go quickly grabbing seeds and others grip the feeder with their feet, pecking at the suet or craking the sunflower shells and eating the seeds while I watch.
Dark-eyed Juncos are shadows their white bellies reflecting the snow. The morning dove floats to the earth like angels from heaven, fan-tailed, their wings all outstretched feathers.
Busy, busy, back and forth. Then in a big Whoosh, they’re gone. As if someone called a warning invisible to my ears.
Not even a minute passes and they’re back as if nothing happened.