Morning Thanks---The flutter of snowbirds

Two degrees outside right now, but no wind. I just gave my morning, bird-seed  blessing, both hanging feeder, as well as a couple of handfuls down on the snow. Soon enough, the action will begin.

I'm not sure where they all hang out when they're not battering each other for their fair share of food, but in five minutes or less they'll flock down here for breakfast, juncos always first. They fly in first and sit in a wiry bush a few feet away from the feeder. They're the only ones who dare come that close when the humanoid is still out there dishing out goodies. 

Juncos are an odd member of the several bands of birds that will soon show up because they are, for reasons all of their own, the least intimidated by me--I can sit up close to the window to snap a picture, and they don't immediately take wing--no big deal. While I don't seem to be of danger to them, they're forever intimidated by their cousins, the sparrows who always come in a bunch. As Shakespeare may have said it, "they come not as spies but in battalions" (that's Hamlet, and it's about sorrows, not sparrows). 

The juncos are the only bunch (save blue jays, who clear the deck when they arrive) with clearly distinguishing features. They come by puffy, round sugar cookies, the vanilla frosting covering their feathery bellies. Something in their constitution forbids scrambling for a position on the feeder; they're land bound, only scavenge down beneath on the snow, so I leave a couple handfuls primarily for them, even though they're quickly shooed away by the more hostile tribes.

Some people call them "snowbirds" (not to be confused by temporary residents of Arizona) because, hard as it is to believe, their presence here outside my window is occasioned by the cold weather most all of us despise. They nest somewhere up north, I'm told, which doubles my reason to care. On the other hand, researchers have determined that they're well-prepared for winter--adding feathers that increase their almost incidental weight by a full thirty per cent. 

Who counts such things, I don't know, but those who do speculate that there are 600,000+ of them extant in the US of A. When a bunch is around, you can call them any of a variety of plurals--a chittering, a crew, a flutter (which is more than a little onomatopoetic)  or maybe just a host, although their numbers outside my window is not sufficient to earn that last title. Maybe a dozen or so--a flutter. 

They're trusting little souls really. You gotta love 'em. I'm a world away from St. Francis; I doubt they'll be alighting on my shoulder any time soon, or, Disney-like, chirping on my ear, but they're sweet to have around and I hope they hold the same regard for the humanoid. 

This morning--and just about all these winter mornings--I'm thankful for the snowbirds, and, I'm humbly guessing, they're quite similarly thankful for m