Invasion

Starlings arrived today, targeting my feeders with precision as they launched their invasion.

I almost made it to the end of winter without them, though in recent days, I've spotted them in near-spring migration, hundreds upon hundreds of them blacking the sky as they soar in a northerly direction, stretching from horizon to horizon.

Throughout the winter I nurtured the presence of my song birds, the fiery red cardinal, the unique etching of a chickadee's feathers, the stark geometry of the red-headed woodpecker. Each has its own language, its own song, its own brand of morning and evening chatter. The starlings, though, are noise. Discordant, squawking noise.

Apart from their distinctive racket, they have an extraordinary ability to arrive by the hundreds and clean out a feeder in half an hour. I had to shut the kitchen down, at least for a while.

My "regulars" are quite skilled at picking my feeders clean in a day; I am used to that pace. But a half-hour? I am also used to these regulars disappearing when the local hawks light on the trees beside the feeder. After all, no self-respecting songbird wants to be brunch. The arrival of the starlings came quickly; hopefully their departure will follow with similar haste, though our extreme cold weather and back to back snows will undoubtedly draw them to both the shelter of my feeding area and the black sunflower seeds it contains.

In truth, though, as I watched the free-for-all that erupted between the locals and the starlings, I became amused by just how territorial my faithful friends were. The cardinals fluttered wings to knock off the starlings, the finches, sparrows and chickadees ran interference. Hard yellow beaks pecked at dark black ones, challenging seed for seed. The faithful asserted their dominance, and the starlings' presence was short-lived, at least for today.

I know it will be a few weeks before the competition settles back to a semblance of normal, and I await the arrival of my other spring birds, including the bluebirds my little house has attracted. By then, the starlings will have move on to freshly tilled fields replete with seed corn and soybeans. Once again, I will have music -- and nothing but music -- at my feeders.

Small brown peat pots.
Seeds pressed
beneath the surface.
Basil. Thyme. Parsley.
Herbs in my window
raise seed leaves
to the sun.

Shedding winter
as spring-like sun
kisses the earth.

Greening fronds of iris
pierce remnants of snow,
birthing spring
from winter cold.

Snow Day

A few days ago my bird population soared as winter's birds were joined by spring's harbingers: robins. These red-breasted groundfeeders -not seen since fall -- were once again everywhere, creating a morning symphony of birdsong.

Indeed, the air grew balmy, warming to the upper 40s, the mid-50s, causing us to shed winter parkas for lighter jackets and hoodies. January thaw? Of course. I hold no illusion that winter is over.

In the tree outside my window, my seven pairs of cardinals and their cold weather companions, finches, chickadees, nuthatches and such, were surrounded by hundreds of other birds. The sunflower seeds in my feeders shrank as if poured through an hourglass -- which is about how long long it took these vultures in the making to deplete each feeder.

Punctuating an exceptionally cold and snowy Tennessee winter, the robins hinted at spring hovering on some meteorologic horizon that would include daffodils, daylight savings time and tornado season.

Yesterday, though, that snippet of warm air dissipated, displaced by a damp frigid cold and a burst of snowfall, the crisp kind of snow that froze roads and coated sidewalks with an icy froth.

Beneath my feet, unlike previous soft billowy snowfalls, this snow crunched and crackled with an edgy sharpness that said "I'm going to make your life a tad difficult for the next few days."

It didn't, though. I of Vermont traction snowboots, long underwear, SmartWool socks and all that other northern cold weather gear, donned my camera, stepped outside and took photos. I can't walk far at all, nor can I stand for long, but a folding chair in the snow and a lens aimed at my birds addressed both issues.

My cheeks reddened, my shoulders were capped in white; being outside for however brief a time was a resuscitation of my spirit, of inner harmony suppressed and saddened through the winter months. I don't do confinement or immobility well.

Snowfalls are a joy, a tumble of happiness that unfailingly scrubs the air clean. The day after a snowstorm usually dawns bright, bold, with the bluest sky and the most breathable air.

I scattered handfuls of ice melt on my sidewalk this morning, a solitary figure in a glistening world not yet awake ... except for my birds, clamoring once more at the feeders. Always hungry for more. Like me.

Snow crunching
underfoot
like corn flakes
and sugar.

Laundered

Sun-kissed linens
snapping
in a summer breeze.

Clarity

Morning air nips.
Wake up. Touch me.
I am here.
Waiting.

Sustenance

As I write from this small corner of my room, I realize that my desk is an immovable object. Oh yes, there are other places, other corners, where I could connect all the wires and peripherals and still work, but not with such peace as I have with its current placement.

My desk sits beside a window, beside a sheltered corner of my house, a corner where my birdfeeders are positioned to be out of the wind, and close enough that should the glass suddenly dissolve, I could reach out and touch the birds, a could lay my along the sill and should I remain still enough, they would likely light upon me.

A few feet away stands a small but full and beautifully shaped tree, lush and leafy in summer, a froth of barren grey branches in the cold seasons. In all seasons, though, bird garnish this tree with presence. I have seven pair of cardinals at last check, a few of whom have earned their own special designations; one is a fiesty red bird who challenges every other bird, knocking others off the feeders in his gluttonous haste to be first and have it all. Summer brings hordes of sun-yellow finches and a frothy riot of chirping and fluttering at the thistle feeders.

Some mornings of late have been unnaturally quiet, and that alone aroused curiosity, until a friend and I -- upon leaving my house -- spotted a healthy female hawk stalking from a sheltered spot in the shrubs. later, she perched on the peak of my roof, a mere six feet from the feeders, awaited her version of a smorgasbord. I startled the hawk one morning when, as I rounded the corner seed in hand, she suddenly flew up, wings rustling and brushing my face. Close encounter of a wild kind.

In the summer months my bluebird house rests at full occupancy, and hummers flitter by my bright red sugar feeders. From September to June, suet feeders hold myriad temptations -- berry blend, peanuts, sunflower seed -- at other points around the house, all positioned to bring maximum birdsong to the world around me.

This obsession had been lurking within me all my life, but blossomed with my father's disability: confined to the home in winter, bird feeding became his pastime of choice, one nurtured by and shared with all of us. My time at the lake intensified my obsession with the addition of wild birds -- egrets, heron, eagles. I've since carried this obsession back to the city I live in now. It's so well known that my Christmas stocking this held my favorite licorice, and suet cakes.

It's a simple pleasure really; no heavy effort involved, just the daily monitoring of seed. Just breathe, watch, listen, smile, laugh...and the day eases by. In a time of manic communication and constant "tuning in," stopping to watch my birds, to let their song serenade me, becomes a peaceful decompression.

Photo by Brandi Rose LaPlante (granddaughter), who knows where the bird book is.

Feast (aros)

Red plumes.
Sunflower seeds snap in yellow beaks.
Winter feast.