Wind roars white noise, canceling every other sound; it flings snow sheets left, right, across my window view.
How does the brown earth disappear when the flakes never seem to land anywhere?
During a lull they dash about like children beneath a pinata, only this is a life and death scramble for the seed energy that will carry them through what promises to be the coldest day of the winter so far.
(But tomorrow’s forecast threatens worse conditions.)
A starling has insinuated himself among the usual throng of doves, finches, and song sparrows.
I contemplate the comments of hardcore birders about these “introduced” species:
“They take over.”
“The dreaded starling.”
I imagine fifty birds invading my feeding area, terrifying all the regulars with their pecking and scrapping. That would be a problem. But if starlings were as scarce as January sunburn, I’d be reporting today’s find on important (to birders) websites.
Tiny splashes of glory spangle across iridescent feathers.
I am stunned into silent admiration.
Breast decorated with more stars than a roomful of generals, coverts outlined in glitter glow, what’s not to love?
glimmering and glistening like a meteor fallen from the sky,
please shimmer here a little longer.
While you devour seeds,
my soul is feasting on your shine.