Sitting on the back deck with Henry yesterday, I noticed a beautiful blue bird right underneath my bird feeder. It was close to me and not alarmed by my presence: I was able to watch and listen for quite a few minutes . . . but not to get a picture of my own.
Checking my bird book later, I confirmed: yes!! Indigo bunting. This is a bird I've "known" since my very early years playing Bird Lotto: but seen very seldom. I believe that the female also made a brief appearance -- one of those "little brown birds".
And then, early evening on the golf course, I heard unmistakeably the sound of a Baltimore oriole: my first this summer.
Such a glorious song.
And: there he was in the top of a bare tree, chest totally illuminated by the last horizontal rays of sunshine.
How many people have been warmed by bird song? And comforted by Emily Dickinson's poem?
“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.