In the words of Cole Porter, “it’s spring again, the birds on the wing again, start to sing again, the old melody”. Birds have been making their presence known around my house this past week. From my perch on the porch I have a perfect view of the dead tree our resident bluebirds call home. And as certain as the turn of the calendar a hummingbird showed up at our regular feeder sight on March 15. I knew they would be arriving and I had meant to get the feeder cleaned and ready for the bird master to fill it and hang it up. But like most things I procrastinated. The hummingbird did not. He was on perfect schedule, hovering at the breakfast room window testing the red glass disks on my windchime for flavor. I’m sure I saw him put his wings on his hips and scold me through the window. No fear, the bird master did his duty and the red sugar water is poised and in position to welcome back the weary travelers.
Yesterday morning the bird master spotted two blue jays scouting a pine tree in our backyard. Back and forth across the yard they flew, gathering straw and twigs to weave into a nest for their next brood. A thrasher wanted to welcome them to the neighborhood, but one of the jays told it to get out of its yard and chased it away. That was enough to send the thrasher back to kicking about the leaves on the ground. I wouldn’t want to be chased by a blue jay either. Those are some scary birds. While we were watching the DIY nest building episode we had a visit to the hummingbird feeder. It wasn’t the ruby throated male from a couple of days before, but a wren. That was a first for me. I’ve never seen a wren try to drink from a hummingbird feeder. Apparently it had not either, and with its beak bent in shame it gave up and flew away.
Porter should have added another verse to “I Love You” which says something about how love is in the breeze but the lovers cannot meet because of the weeds tripping up their feet as they run towards each other in slow motion in the grassy meadow. I decided to be productive yesterday and tackle the weeds in my vast flower beds. I donned my straw hat and garden gloves and went to work. , but I was only good for about an hour before I called it a day and headed inside to rest. I found Nottinghill on and I can never pass up a Brit Flick. Besides, it was much more fun to watch Hugh Grant stumble over his words than it was for me to stumble over the stumps and briars in my garden. Anyway, in the short time I was out outside I heard a familiar bird sound high in the sky. It was a hawk, maybe even two. I generally like hawks. The bird master especially does, hence, the middle name of our first born. However, the hawk and I have come to an impasse today. This morning I find only one goose in the pasture. Jerry Clower, my gander is still here, but Miss Piggy, his faithful mate is gone. My guess is she’s gone on the wing of that hawk I heard yesterday. I donned the straw hat and went weeding again and looking for her as well. Then I heard it again, the high pitched one note whistle overhead. This time I heard it say “and your little dog too”. Poor Jerry Clower. He’s so lonely. I opened the pasture gates so he could go visit the goats on the other side. They will keep him company, and maybe they can convince him to sleep in the barn with them tonight and hide out from that hawk looking for its second course.
Meanwhile I looked to see if any eggs were left in the nest Miss Piggy had been pampering for the last couple of weeks. None. So maybe the hawk isn't to blame afterall. I should have taken the eggs away so as not attract critters, but I had visions of little yellow geese swimming peacefully on the pond. Oh well, I think I'm getting out of the feathered friend business. I’m not sure I want to keep raising hawk food. Or in this case, coon food.