From the feeder

I couldn't help thinking that the focus was off on this shot of a sparrow outside my window--and it may well be. But the portrait also features something of the wardrobe my fine feathered friends are into right now when they descend on the feeder--and descend they do: "when sparrows come, they come not as spies, but in battalions." That's not Shakespeare, but it's close.

This fella is a full winter gear. They don't throw on hats and gloves, nor wrap themselves in woolen blankets. Somehow they make do when temps get to -20, as they did last week, by just fluffing those feathers out as far as they can so they look only half-focused. More fluff is all they've got to fight the cold. Their fuzziness is a blessing.

Those fluffed-out coats keeps them warm, as does as much food as they can gobble up, both from and beneath the feeder outside my window. I can go through--correction! they can go through--20 pounds a week, although their numbers suggest that I'm now feeding more than my share of the battalions.

Wait a minute. Let me get you a shot that's wide enough to include the bush that's there at the right side of the picture. 

That's a little better, but there's only two in the bush--often enough there are more. Sometimes the goings-on out there seems a massive tag team match: ground troops battle it out until they're winded, they ascend to the bush where they touch wingtips with some buddy at rest, who then takes his or her turn in the scrum on the ground.

They're a circle of middle-school girls, moving only when someone decides to shuffle to the other side of the cafeteria. When I walk past the window, they all take flight. As they do when the jays show up.

I don't know that I've ever seen a blue jay take a shot at a sparrow. One jay equals about a half-dozen sparrows, who don't have to be told they're outgunned. The whole bunch take off in a fog when the jays grab a snack. At least they bring some color onto all that dirty snow; the sparrows, in a bunch, would look like buffalo from a drone. If you deliberately fuzz your gaze, they could be wearing fur.

The Jays flash their blessed blue, as if a chunk of sky fell just outside the back door. But they're also battle worn these days, like snow that fell a week ago. They'd be  handsome if they'd take a bath. 

And then there's the juncos, little 'uns who stay the heck out of everyone's way. They come around only when the others have et their share. They pick away at almost anything and never dare the height of the feeder. During the reign of  dusky sparrows, their white bellies bouncing along on the snow cover make them little darlings. You got to love 'em. They run from everybody, but seem to be, oddly enough, least afraid of me.

I don't know what kinds of birds St. Francis supposedly charmed, but of the residents of our backyard right now, I'd guess it would be juncos. Maybe I ought to try.

Friend of mine, a man I respect, claims that feeding birds the way I do turns them fat and lazy. A bag of bird feed is a totally unnatural form of sustenance. He can't be wrong, of course. If it weren't for me, all these troopers would have to be somewhere else, chewing up the prairie grass or pulling what seeds remain in curled up sunflowers, not dependent on that big guy with the plastic pitcher of feed.  

I don't know. This friend knows far more about birds than I do. He may well be right. Maybe I'm breaking some naturalist's law--I'm sinning by putting out feed when the temps are as low as they go. Me and St. Francis, we both have too big of a heart. 

But, good night, it's been cold.