Bluebirds

On vigilance and companionship in turbulent times

The short essay below was written as a prompt response in the fabulous writing community

Writing in the Dark with Jeannine Ouellette

. I can hardly say enough good things about the space created there. It has been an antidote to anti-social media in my life. The community is generous, nurturing, and supportive, and I am learning a lot about writing from my lived experience and body. Sharing my words in that community gives me the courage to share my writing again, warts and all.

---

Bluebirds

Writing has always been hard for me, but now it is harder because I wonder if the lurkers can upend my life. Outside the kitchen window, bluebirds land on the first ceramic pinch pot I ever made. Cerulean wings teeter back and forth over the bowl of dried mealworms. They feast rapidly before being outmaneuvered by the pointy yellow bills of starlings. When a titmouse sends up a harsh call, everyone flushes. Squirrels scatter to the understory or freeze upside down on a tree branch.

It takes a good half hour for the bluebirds to return and reset the game. Before then, chickadees, the humblest of forest ambassadors, return to feed. They let everyone know the coast is clear, “chicka-dee-dee-dee-deeeeeee.” Their song reminds me that the northern hemisphere is tilting back toward the sun. Spring is less than a month away. I will soon be able to sing one of my favorite songs, “Robin red breast, crow flying high...” I always wait until spring to sing that song. It’s a welcoming song for the return of migrants—my steadfast neighbors during life’s perennial changes.

Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

Between mealworm bites, the bluebirds tilt their head sideways to see who is nearby. Starlings are pesky. Hawks are lethal. To feast requires constant vigilance and companionship. And it’s not for nothing. When the drought was especially bad, a juvenile red-tailed hawk used our feeders for more than a proving ground. The birdbath and feeders were their survival sanctuary. They stayed so long that we named them “Jumanji.” Jumanji was skilled in the art of the ambush. I was fond of their adaptability. And it hurt to watch Jumanji bust our neighborhood squirrel, rabbit, and bird communities. When Jumanji moved on, our fur and feather neighbors avoided the yard for months. To build trust, we added small perches near the feeders, removed the old wood fence that was an escape barrier, and planted more understory cover.

Today, the neighbors arrived en masse after we rolled out a red carpet of clean feeders and baths. Chickadees, titmice, finches, starlings, and bluebirds swoop from the feeders to the ground. Bounce around the birdbath. Scatter water droplets on the dormant lamb’s ear. Squirrels gather leaves to fortify their nests. A rabbit nibbles the lowest branches of an arborvitae. The earth tilts on its axis. A bluebird tilts its head toward the sky. And so do I.