April 3rd is here, and it looks like another cold start to the day. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, if you know what I mean.
Rituals come and go, like the rights of spring, but some rituals blend in and trend their way into a normal routine that just seems like it should be there.
We love our animals out here. When I hear a coyote pack call in the night, a barn owl echo through the midnight trees, the Canada Geese, and of course, those pesky birds that throw their waking calls at you just like clock work.
This poem I dedicate to one of my favorite flyers. No matter the cold, the weather, the time of year, they’re always at the ready with their unique song.
I hope you all have a great day, and it was good to sit back and listen to the call last night. You guys are an amazing bunch of inspiration, and I thank you for it.
Birds of Blue
Fingers move slowly in the chilled morning air.
The furnace clears its throat as it fires up a morning song.
Blue jays gather atop the spruce outside and patiently wait.
Their unmistakable calls echo out along the April morning breeze.
Peanuts, cereal and bread fill the breakfast bowl.
The kitchen window opens and the birds shrill away.
The food is thrown, the screen slowly closes, the wait begins.
One by one, those beautiful birds of blue effortlessly glide back to the spruce.
The youngest of the jays slowly drop to the ground.
They chorus loudly with their joyous breakfast call.
Holding open the window, I cradle the empty bowl and smile.
Another beautiful day on the ridge has begun.