"There's a soft hush outside due to the thick blanket of snow outside my doors. The juncos, sparrows and finches are feasting at the feeder my husband made out of wood scraps from the barn, and their merry chatter and swift movement charm both me and the cat. Just now, a beautiful young, male, Northern Flicker perched on my upended outdoor table leg. His roseate cheeks gleaming against the mocha of his cheeks, his tufted head looking rakish in the wind, he peers around him, making sure its safe. I wouldn’t have known he was there but for his peculiar keening, whistle of a cry, telling his mate the mother lode was there on my back porch - a pile of wild bird seed, theirs for the taking.
He continues to perch, not feeding, while he awaits her, his cries plaintive and entreating. The wind continues to ruffle his dark back, showing the creamy fluffy underfeathers, increasing his size even more. He puffs himself out, disguising his usually sleek body, to increase his chances of warmth. He turns to peer in my window, straining to see danger beyond the glass if it’s there. His V shaped swath of soft black on his throat looks like some diplomat’s sash, a signal of office. His speckled breast, dark brown against creamy taupe, looks fresh and vivid against the white landscape behind him.
Good morning village life. This is one reason (of the many) I moved here. For the quiet, the birds, the lovely youngsters next door who brushed the foot of snow off my wood benches ‘so Bill and Janice can sit there’, the galumphing stride of mine and the neighbors dog as they wade and leap through the snow, having fun while taking care of morning needs. The mountains stand like friendly sentinels, a deep note of green, the wind blows its melody over the snow swathed gardens and fields, the birds‘ song the woodwinds and pipes. It’s an ecovillage symphony, and right now, it’s all mine to enjoy."
He continues to perch, not feeding, while he awaits her, his cries plaintive and entreating. The wind continues to ruffle his dark back, showing the creamy fluffy underfeathers, increasing his size even more. He puffs himself out, disguising his usually sleek body, to increase his chances of warmth. He turns to peer in my window, straining to see danger beyond the glass if it’s there. His V shaped swath of soft black on his throat looks like some diplomat’s sash, a signal of office. His speckled breast, dark brown against creamy taupe, looks fresh and vivid against the white landscape behind him.
Good morning village life. This is one reason (of the many) I moved here. For the quiet, the birds, the lovely youngsters next door who brushed the foot of snow off my wood benches ‘so Bill and Janice can sit there’, the galumphing stride of mine and the neighbors dog as they wade and leap through the snow, having fun while taking care of morning needs. The mountains stand like friendly sentinels, a deep note of green, the wind blows its melody over the snow swathed gardens and fields, the birds‘ song the woodwinds and pipes. It’s an ecovillage symphony, and right now, it’s all mine to enjoy."
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