"She decided to free herself, dance into the wind, create a new language. And birds fluttered around her, writing 'yes' in the sky." ~ Monique Duval
Eating breakfast at Fat Hummingbird Farm takes up most of the morning. That is due to the vast number of birds that come to the bird feeders on the porch. Two of the largest kitchen windows look out onto this porch and the feeders are hung close to them, providing unimpeded viewing. The fascination of watching the birds makes toast and coffee go on for a long time - at least until the toast has hardened and the coffee is lukewarm. We are in a kind of 'flow state' as we watch various flocks of birds come to the feeders, each at some internal time schedule that is constant enough to set a clock to if we were wont to set clocks. Crows, starlings, jays, finches, nuthatches, chickadees, pine siskin, ravens, downy woodpeckers and red-bellied woodpeckers, cardinals, the occasional birds we have not yet identified, and my beloved doves. The feeders are shared with at least two, more likely three, pairs of squirrels and last night a pair of juvenile raccoons pawed through the feeder on the table, knocked at the window, and peered large-eyed and brashly at us when we turned on the outside light.
But in the mornings a sort of meditative calm takes us over as we creep about our kitchen duties, trying hard not to startle them off with a cupboard door slammed too loudly or a sneeze. The chickadees are especially bold and tend not to fly off. The doves, on the other hand, fly off on their whistling wings at the slightest noise or motion. Just this week, though, they appear to be more accepting of our human ways and startle less, watching us warily but starting, in wee tittles, to trust.
I hope that they see we are kind. I hope that one day they will trust us like birds trust an artist friend of mine. Once, many years ago, I called far out to Ontario, to her home. Her husband answered the phone and I asked to speak to her. He took the phone with him to the kitchen window to call her, as she was outside.
"Oh!", he said, "She can't come now. She is standing out there covered in birds. They are perched all over her arms and on her head, fluttering at the ends of her fingers!"
The birds don't have to do anything particularly spectacular to have us watch so keenly. It is in the nature of their very 'bird-ness' that we are drawn to share our lives at Fat Hummingbird Farm with them. We watch the birds and forget all about the time, and indeed the world. Why?
"The outline of an answer is in the small flock of birds bursting and weaving through the pendant branches of the cedar just now, backlit by fog on the water . . . The physical allure of the event, how it pulls the eye - the convergence of light, animation, and color, the fleetness of the moment, the mysterious identity of the actors - can be successfully plumbed; but more of this apparition lies outside the senses, beyond the province of intellect. It is within the ambit of wisdom . . . A community of birds, moving relentlessly through subdued light, in harmony with all else, does not need a destination to be beautiful. They do not need an explanation to have meaning. They do not have to serve a purpose. Merely by moving through, they instigate wonder. They stir possibility. A wave of anonymous energy, the fate of which bears directly on our own." ~ Barry Lopez
Here on the Farm I am so happy that we are graced with the sweetest of birds - the mourning dove. Back on the West Coast we had doves though I never saw them. I would hear them but rarely, if ever, saw them. I am thrilled that we have a flock of at least thirty doves that call Fat Hummingbird Farm home. And they don't hide from us. Before their turn at the morning feeders they gather in the oak tree at the side of the house, looking like how partridges in pear trees are depicted on Christmas cards. Chubby. When it is their turn they swoop onto the flat trays, onto the table, or onto the driveway where Bar has scattered seed for them. Their gentle call of cooooOOOOO-woo-woo-woo greets us in the hushed quiet of the morning and calls softly into the night - just until the moon rises. It is like a solemn hymn. Many years ago, in an exceptionally stormy summer, I found several of their nests fallen to the ground. They are the frailest and most delicate nests I have seen - shallow soft bowls made of pine needles and grass stems. Even more delicate than the nests of bush tits. A group of mourning doves is called a dule - which means pitying. Perhaps I love them best because pity, though sorrowful, is also merciful. We all need mercy in our lives.
I have not seen bush tits at the farm yet. Back on the West Coast, in the summer season, great flocks of tiny bush tits descended habitually on a bush in the yard. The bush tits are so very tiny, like little fairy birds. They twittered constantly as they swarmed like bees over the bush. The twittering sounds like baby breaths breathed through tiny chimes. I've come across, once or twice, their strange hanging nests made of moss and spider webs. What else but a fairy-blessed creature would make nests out of spider webs? Perhaps they will come this summer - to find us here at our home on the east coast.
Sometimes nightly, in numbers more copious than those west coast bush tits, crows crowd in the evening skies in waves and waves of discordant cacophony. They are going to trees to roost for the night, cuddled bum to beak along branches and briar. They build incredibly messy nests and chase the song birds sometimes, jealous of their melodic voices compared to their own hoarse and jangling racket. But I love crows. I admire their temerity. We have a group of about four to six that come daily to march about the yard in their self-important, Winston Churchill-esque way. They race the squirrels to rough-shelled peanuts, a favourite of both. They will sometimes spend entire afternoons sitting in the Black Locust trees imitating squeaky farm gates, a creaking branch, or a mewing kitten.
A neighbour has promised that bluebirds will come soon. And another neighbour is building a barn. He is deliberately leaving the mow door unfinished and open in hopes of attracting barn swallows. I do hope they come. A group of barn swallows is called a gulp. And I know when I see them cutting the evening light into shards with their sharp swooping wings, I gulp at the beauty of them. As the winter is warmed away other species of birds will return from their southern respites and will come to sing at Fat Hummingbird Farm.
I collect bird feathers. The feathers live in a pile of colour in a ceramic dish on a table. The feathers are like messages left in secret places where I am meant to happen upon them. Or Bar will find a feather on one of his walks about the farm and add it to the bowl, saying nothing, until I notice the new colour glinting in the bowl. I am always surprised at how delighted I feel to see that. And to have birds that leave messages. And to have someone who knows that I need to see them.
