They do not even wait until I leave anymore. As soon as I reach the feeder with my old rusty coffee can, they come–perch in tree and bush, hover above my head–and wait. They watch as I fill the transparent tubes, scatter seed on ground for the thrush and occasional rabbit.
Sometimes they sing.
This morning, as I kneel over the can of seed, a song sparrow lights on the leggy forsythia bush. It is raining but I don’t care as I stop what I am doing and gaze up at his prehistoric form. He cocks his head to one side, as if to say, “On with it, lady!”
I smile and finish the task at hand, barely stepping away before he flits down onto the fragile sill of the seed trough.