A busy bird day, mid-afternoon, the widest variety, collecting food with a vengeance, curiously after an ephemerally dense snowfall which followed the short-lived strokes of the sun, the valley’s chronic cloud cover responsible for an atypical run of sunless days.

The buckthorn, one of two that remain purposefully for diversity sake is discovered, the seed of frozen cherries the goal, like hummingbirds one species hover for an extended time while picking that fruit one by one, the tree’s canopy buzzing with action.

A black oil seed basket serving so many who share the resource, queued and rarely simultaneous, but persistent, hopping branch side and smashing the hull to ingest, or caching seed for surviving the thrills of a winter notorious for lingering well beyond February and March.

I imagine for the bitter winter survivor its a day by day challenge to consume energy and to make water, to nest as blizzards storm, or as Orion gleams brightest in the longest and coldest of nights, certainly its not an old bird’s game.

It could be that my own two wings and feathers deserve attention, survival never certain, winter blowing hard can unseat the most taloned of birds, the most prepared of creatures.