HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
In reviewing the pictures I’ve taken lately, there has been a recurring theme…BIRDS. I’ve always been drawn to them. Constantly scanning the treetops or sitting quietly on my deck watching the activity at the feeders. I especially enjoy the antics of hummingbirds. Dive-bombing each other to protect the precious nectar so necessary to maintain their almost constant motion. Their wings almost imperceptible in their vibration. Or the formal Chic-chic-chic-o-dee in its black coat and starched white shirt. Staying only the briefest moment to grab a black-oil sunflower seed before retreating to the protection of the trees. The gray faced tit-mouse with its mouseketeer ears cocking its head sideways and selecting the perfect morsel or the patient golden finch introducing the fledgling to the feeder and the proper etiquette in maneuvering the black thistle seed from the tiny opening while perched on shaky legs, wings aflutter to maintain balance.
Even at work I have feathered friends. In the outdoor eating area is a pond with many different creatures. The pond is planted with diverse vegetation and teaming with goldfish. Ducks and Canadian geese are permanent citizens here constantly begging for that last scrap of crust from your lunch while the occasional heron secrets itself on twigs for legs and snatches an unsuspecting dinner of goldfish before flying over the top of the building to some unknown nest to feed its young.