The winter morning is perfect.
Motionless against the sunrise, birds perch in the frosted tree branches, bright eyes watching as I crunch across the icy snow, spilling sunflower seeds. In this strange winter of sparse snowfall and erratic temperatures, a sizeable flock of freeloading birds at my feeding station has burgeoned and most of them now hover above me, waiting for me to depart to my human world of chores and television and clinking breakfast dishes, leaving them to their feast.
But something about this late February morning mesmerizes me and I remain, stock-still, drinking it in as the birds wait for me to go.
The rising sun spreads pinkish Black Hills gold across the eastern sky. The gold touches the frosted tree branches and they glow slightly. Not a breath of wind blows. The air is soft, imparting an early spring feel.
The birds, mostly pine grosbeaks, finally become impatient and softly cheeping, begin descending, one by one, for once not seeming to mind my presence. They land gently on the snow bank and begin feasting at the sunflower seed buffet.
Soon, the grosbeaks are joined by a congregate of noisy pine siskins and redpolls. The combined flock pays no attention to me. Normally, they flutter and flap and wait in the trees for me to depart.
But not this magical morning. The birds and I share the moment. They go about their bird business as if I weren’t there.
This winter has gifted me with bird species other than the normal blue jays, chickadees and woodpeckers. One morning, I heard the soft hooting of an owl. Another day, I heard the call of cardinals and spotted two high in a treetop. But the best gift of this winter is the daily visit from this flock that has inhabited the tree top world in my yard. They wait for my handouts, filling the air with the soft musical whistles of grosbeaks and the tweeting trills of siskins.
Today they allow this close proximity, so during this shared moment, I am soothed by the bird utterances, the steadily increasing intensity of the morning sun, and the blue of the brightening sky.
But a flash of movement at the periphery of my vision breaks the spell, and a sinister dark shadow catches my eye. The birds are alarmed and fly away at possible danger. What has broken the spell of this perfect morning?
I turn to look.
The tan and black figure of Mr. Magoo, the pug, aggressively barrels around the house corner, screeches to a halt and furiously barks at the intruders. The birds remain in tree branches, waiting for him to go, looking quite irritated.
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