A January Day

Today is chilly and dreary, foggy and damp, but as beautiful as any other day here on our windy top in the pines.

I like to sit outside, no matter what the air feels like, to listen to the stories the birds tell each other, or maybe they’re telling me.

From on top of the tallest evergreen the mockingbird sings his complicated song, to his own or to the sparrows down below, commanding all to listen and especially me.

The mockingbird is king, though that knowledge is only for him and me. He stops his singing to chase the trespassers from his tree.

Different voices float by, a flock of geese honking in unison as they fly, the secretive crows call out from tree line and field, shouting their ideas for their next meal, it isn’t here.

A red-belly chuckles in but doesn’t stay, followed by a rather loud and opinionated blue-jay calling to his crew, letting them know he’s found the mother lode.

The longer I sit, just quiet and think, the more comfortable they all get with the idea of me, just another odd part of the scenery.

There are so many small voices dancing around me, it can be hard to pick out the individual choir which creates a particular piece of music.

The dingy gold-finches sing their wispy, whiney tune, while the cardinals cheer and the neighborhood chickens creep up with their quiet clucking, flapping wings and clicking beaks, persuading me to get them some seed.

It’s another quiet Sunday out here in the country, a gray day for which I am grateful.

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