The chickadees have taken to flapping up against the glass of my back door to get my attention. They want me to crush fresh walnuts into the palm of my hand and feed them.
I can hardly refuse.
These birds are the children of the children of the
children of the children of the first pair to befriend me. I have not bothered
to name any of these birds. To me, they are all simply “Hello Chickadee.”
I see the chickadees only in the morning hours; I
never dream of them, and I don’t question their motives. I will say this: they
stay for the entire Montana winter, which is admirable if not a little silly.
When the weather finally turns for the better this spring, I am considering
taking a book of Richard Hugo’s poems outside so I can read a few verses aloud
for the chickadees.
Birds understand the music in words.
—Mitchell Hegman
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