An oriole landed on the feeder Friday morning. I came through the rear door of the house in time to hear both my parents say, “quick, look quick, what kind of bird is that?” And before the yellow bird flew off I saw it for just a moment—a narrow beak and distinct wing bars. I couldn’t lie to myself that it had been any other bird, one more suited to withstand the winter blast that lay ahead.
The pear tree is popular with the orioles. Its blossoms and later, rotting fruit, draw the families back, more of them each year. These birds are particularly jewel-like, weaving and dropping around the white and green flowers of spring branches. The color they cast is that of a bauble pierced by the sun, something you want to see again and again because it mesmerizes and delights you.
But this one remains in its summer habitat, in drab attire, no sun to speak of, no song either. There is no nectar, insects and fruit are few. One cannot blame me for thinking perhaps I could catch it and put it in Liberty Farm’s greenhouse, where colorful flowers press against the glass windows even on the coldest days. The plants in storage make a small botanical garden.
The snow changed to rain like it usually does. This happened in the middle of the night and many had gone to bed with the cozy thought of a snowy Sunday. Winter mornings like that are so rare, and yet we base our romantic love for the season on such a.m. hallucinations. We are generally on that outside band of rain and it freezes only after everything can be adequately sheeted in ice.
Winter here is slippery and dangerous, especially for spells. Spells are short periods of time. Something comes on strong, lasts awhile, then vanishes. A spell can be a friendship, a month, years, a few days, a seasonal trend, or just a few seconds if you are fine adjusting a lathe. Spells stand out and can seem harsh.
When the snow changed to rain I heard it on the bedroom windows. It woke me and I lay awake for a while then, listening to its slushy drum. The soft porch became loud and the skylight slid clean. We lost that safe and sound nothingness of snow to the noisy, glass infused rain and I wondered, of course, about the oriole in all this.
Chickens don’t like winter. For one, they don’t seem to like being kept in their coop all day. The young birds are especially pushy. When I let them out they barge out the hatchway at once, trampling and flapping over each other as they tumble and slide down the ramp. Nothing seems greater than their urge to get outside. So in cold, wet weather when I cannot let them out, they will rush me at the door and I have to shoo and defend my way in like a goalie, until I can shut the door behind me.
These birds are seven months old this week, and consequently, despite the length of day, laying like mad. Eggs add up very quickly and I can see how the milkmaid began to daydream. Before I knew it, I was getting more eggs than I knew what to do with and with all known outlets satisfied, I picked up the phone and advertised on Swap and Shop.
I waited for the phone to go nuts, but I got just one call. It was from the guys over in the shop, who had been listening to 92.1 when I put my free-range chicken eggs on the air. They had to call, even with caller ID and Ted disguising his voice, pretending, just for fun, to be a wildly enthusiastic customer.
on Jan 13, 2009