The threat of rain continues. Isis stays put. But I don't want to go outside! -- is written all over his face. When he thinks (incorrectly) that I want to kick him outdoors, he hides under the television.
It's a busman's breakfast. Ed is out helping a friend with one project or anther and so I take my oatmeal to my work table. I can't tell if it's still dark because it's early, or because it's that cloudy.
The sensor bell (a.k.a. Isis's doorbell) rings incessantly and since I know the cat is sprawled on the duvet upstairs (his hands-down favorite place to be -- even better if my feet are there for him to lean against), I imagine it's one of the many chipmunks that make their home at the base of the farmhouse. But as I walk over, just to see, I can tell that it's not chipmunks -- it's birds, swooping down and causing the air to shake. There are many of them and they all want a bite at the thornapple fruits.
We associate a flurry of robins with spring: the worms, hibernating as they do below the freeze-line, crawl to the surface, the robins show up to swallow them whole, the cats chase the birds (not Isis -- he never was a birder), -- that's the harsher side of spring. But at the farmette the robins are equally present now, at the cusp of winter, raiding the red fruits, squawking at each other, working those wings as if in some ritualistic dance. They're filling their bellies. Some will fly south, some will stay by the fruited trees all winter long, picking, picking, waiting for the ground to thaw.
In other news -- I imagined dinners for the week ahead and picked up groceries for them.
In the evening, Ed took out the lights we purchased at Menards. They're holiday lights, but we're kind of charmed by them even without the holidays. (They're on right now.) Your remote controls their flickering and that's nice too. You wont get a photo tonight after all (it's raining, I'm tired -- the usual excuses). But picture this: outside, where it is dark and owls are hooting, you can see a chain of twinkling lights line the porch. On, off, twinkle twinkle twinkle, on, off.
It's a beautiful world out there, on this dark November night. On off, twinkle twinkle, on off.
It's a busman's breakfast. Ed is out helping a friend with one project or anther and so I take my oatmeal to my work table. I can't tell if it's still dark because it's early, or because it's that cloudy.
The sensor bell (a.k.a. Isis's doorbell) rings incessantly and since I know the cat is sprawled on the duvet upstairs (his hands-down favorite place to be -- even better if my feet are there for him to lean against), I imagine it's one of the many chipmunks that make their home at the base of the farmhouse. But as I walk over, just to see, I can tell that it's not chipmunks -- it's birds, swooping down and causing the air to shake. There are many of them and they all want a bite at the thornapple fruits.
We associate a flurry of robins with spring: the worms, hibernating as they do below the freeze-line, crawl to the surface, the robins show up to swallow them whole, the cats chase the birds (not Isis -- he never was a birder), -- that's the harsher side of spring. But at the farmette the robins are equally present now, at the cusp of winter, raiding the red fruits, squawking at each other, working those wings as if in some ritualistic dance. They're filling their bellies. Some will fly south, some will stay by the fruited trees all winter long, picking, picking, waiting for the ground to thaw.
In other news -- I imagined dinners for the week ahead and picked up groceries for them.
In the evening, Ed took out the lights we purchased at Menards. They're holiday lights, but we're kind of charmed by them even without the holidays. (They're on right now.) Your remote controls their flickering and that's nice too. You wont get a photo tonight after all (it's raining, I'm tired -- the usual excuses). But picture this: outside, where it is dark and owls are hooting, you can see a chain of twinkling lights line the porch. On, off, twinkle twinkle twinkle, on, off.
It's a beautiful world out there, on this dark November night. On off, twinkle twinkle, on off.
Your robins are blue? The birds I think are robins here have the rusty breast but otherwise a nondescript brown-black. Maybe I have never known a real robin?
ReplyDeleteLee I -- they're slate gray, which, in the shadow takes on blue hues. But it's just the work of light. Yellow beak, red tummy -- unmistakable in CA or WI!
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