We had our first proper snowfall of the winter this morning,
and the birds knew it was coming. It hadn’t started when I first went out to
feed them, but they were all there – tribes of them, filling the branches of
trees, shrubs and hedgerows with little feathered bodies. The sparrows,
dunnocks, tits and finches were looking mildly anxious, but generally patient.
Not so the robin. He was leaning forward determinedly, giving me the look. Robins do that; they don’t so
much accept as demand. I think it’s why I love ’em so much.
On a sad but inevitable note, some might remember the robin
I mentioned frequently in posts over the last two winters. He was the one who
followed me round the garden, expecting his own private pile of oats. He was
the one who would watch me open the office curtains from his perch on the
greenhouse roof, and then be standing on the step when I opened the door. He
was the one I dreamt about a couple of times. He and I had something good
going, but there’s been no sign of him so far this winter. He’s been with me
for three years, and I gather that’s a normal life span for a small bird. Maybe
he’ll be reborn as something else soon, and we can renew our acquaintance. Maybe
he’s due for a step up on the scale of sentient beings. It’s becoming
increasingly evident that birds are a lot smarter than most people think they
are.
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