in which i crow
This morning, I sat at my kitchen table with a journal and a pencil. Morning pages, so to speak, the result of a table that was cleared, sunlight glinting just so off the surface, and the time and space to savor a cup of tea, a blank page, the scratch of a pencil.
Outside my tiny kitchen window, the one I always wish was a big bay picture window but never will be, the birds were having their breakfast. A pair of cardinals sat together on a branch for a moment, winter lovers in shades of heart. Chickadees flitted in and out, always busy, always happy, I think the word flibbertigibbet was invented just for them. And as I sat there, writing, watching, writing, I heard the alarm caw of a crow. One of my crows, the three that come every morning for breakfast in the driveway, two on the ground, eating, one posing as lookout in the tree overhead.
Moments later, a large flock of starlings (isn’t it early for starlings?) landed in the hedgerow, chirping and fluttering and fidgeting and then moving on just as quickly as they arrived, in a great flurry of feather and branches and sunlight.
My naughty kitten was pretending to meander down the driveway.
All of this in just a few moments, but enough to make me get up to find my camera. And yes, of course, when I returned, there were no birds in sight. And so, more scratching, more tea, more listening. To a quiet that is never silent, the hum of the refrigerator behind me, the sound of pencil, and there, again, the caw of crow.
They had returned, my three musketeers, two down, one up, always waiting, watching, working. My sentinels of morning.
I snapped many shots of the watchman, but this was my favorite, the dropping down to earth, after deciding it was safe, to feast on seed.
A moment in time that happens a dozen times every day, but only once in all of eternity.
I love that.