Saturday

4 November 2017

— now barely resisting putting out the first birdseed

Good Morning All,

Even as we speak, a house wren, the smallest of our European birds, is perched on the back of one of the patio chairs. He has been over here at the window to inspect the two clear-plastic, suction-cup feeders roughly five feet from me and on a level with where I sit. I hope he has noticed how clean and bright they are since I gave them a thorough scrubbing in the kitchen sink yesterday. Certainly, he has noticed how empty they are. Now—and also even as we speak—he has returned to the nearer of the two feeders and is giving me the hairy eyeball.  What tiny, ebony bright eyes he has! 

Even through the thermal panes, I can hear him saying, “What’s the story here, Bheka? It is the 4th of November. You are normally laying out the kibble long before this!”

Which is true. My rule for the past thirty years has been first frost or my dad’s birthday on 10 November. And there’s been no frost yet. Most unusual. I cannot recall ever getting past mid-October without waking of a morning to look out the window and see gray-bearded grass.

I’ve been ready for weeks. Out for a drive, Esther and I stopped at the mill where I got ten kilos of shelled sunflowers for those window feeders, ten kilos of unshelled sunflowers for the two hanging feeders (the redwood one, a gift from my California brother and his wife, and the red-cottage one that hangs from a limb of the apple tree); and ten kilos of mixed seed for the two platform feeders and a couple of hanging tubes. That should be roughy half of what I use before stopping on 21 June.

Now two magpies have dropped by for the old bread I tossed out on the lawn yesterday. I tear it up into stamp-sized bits and they or the crows or the mourning doves land long enough to bill one up and go to sit in the now bare oak branches to enjoy breakfast.

Anyway, I have informed this little house wren that my rule is first frost or my dad’s birthday. And he has replied, “You of all people, Bheka! Surely you have read your Emerson and know that 'a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.'”

I can feel myself weakening, not least because the weather gurus are predicting no temperatures below 7 Celsius (45 Fahrenheit) all next week. I’ll keep you posted.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. You may blame it on this wren your have to wait yet another day for my November poem. Fortunately, it’s not a very good poem.

P.P.S. Two Holly snaps: