The birds have been busy at the feeder outside my studio. So much movement and color, they are a constant flickering. Sometimes I stop working to watch them. The cardinals have been coming around, their red males and bright orange beaks of the females have inspired my latest batch of potholders.
Yesterday the snow under the feeder was stained red with blood. I didn’t see who made a meal of one of the birds, but I did find some feathers.
This is the first year that I’ve seen larger birds of prey target the birdfeeder. The first time it was a hawk who swooped past my window and stunned a nuthatch who later flew away.
But mostly it’s peaceful at the feeder. Maybe a little competition from the bluejays, but everyone seems to get what they need.
6 thoughts on “At The Birdfeeder”
Love the photos and the video. It felt like an orchestra tuning up.
Inspired me to write this Haiku:
a simple, full meal
…seeds and flesh interconnect
with a simple life
from my heart, in peace and loving-kindness,
Beautiful Carol. And Just right. Thank you so much for writing it and sharing it with us.
At my bird feeders I have noticed that the blue jays give a cry to warn the others when a bird of prey is close by.
Yes, Marsha, I’ve heard that bluejays do that. I’ll have to listen for it.
Maria, many years ago when I wrote ‘the last bird sings’ my card for the holidays was a cardinal in a bare tree. I never used it because I kept seeing the bare tree as an evergreen. But what I drew was a version of your cardinal in a bare tree, skeleton tree with no leaves. My title for the drawing was ‘even the cardinal wears the bare tree in elegance’.
When I saw your photo, the caption of my drawing came to mind. It seems my head is full of what people don’t want to know. Just ask my family! love you, veronica
What beautiful and perfect words for that image Veronica, yours and mine. It’s so interesting how that happens, that you had one image in your head but drew another. As if you needed that image to get to the words. And I want to hear your words Veronica. The mark of a true mystic is people not wanting to know what you have to say, but you say it anyway.