She broadened her shoulders and puffed her chest out as I would in “hands clasped behind the back.” Her wings spread wide as I would in Hasta Prasarita pose; just looking at her made me instinctively straighten up and take in a long, deep breath.
Yet neither of us sat on a mat; this was no yoga class. I had just strewn three handfuls of Wagner’s Eastern Region Blend bird seed on my postage-stamp-sized deck. I do this ritually each morning so I can watch the avian activity as I sip my PG Tips with just the right amount of milk and eat breakfast.
Mostly I attract a bevy of mourning doves and all matter of sparrows. The occasional blue jay, grackle, house finch, wren, cowbird, or starling come around but never seem to stay. I can hear the cardinals that do their best to camouflage themselves in the trees that in turn serve, in the warm months at least, to screen the melee of the nearby highway. But their distinctive song betrays them. I know they’re there as soon as they tweet.
Shy and timid, they alight momentarily once the other birds have had their fill. But of late, a new couple has proven bolder. I can tell them apart by their color, plumage patterns, and state of molt. This pair of youngsters is new to my tiny terrace. Their unruffled feathers tell me that they are, for now, strangers to trauma. They land sooner and stay longer, so I, too, linger longer over my tea.
She had her back to me. Rude, I thought, as I love the sight of her bright orange beak which announces itself so loudly against the backdrop of her muted red coat. Her mate (many cardinals, unlike most humans, stay together for life) perched on a branch watching her preen.
Wherefore her show? I wondered. It seemed opposite to the normal order of the mating ritual when the male of the species struts his stuff to impress the female with his appealing virility. She stood statue still for a few moments, and then began to flutter her wings rapidly - this reddish Swan Lake prima ballerina. Her beau answered the call I could not decode and joined her, facing me. He began, meticulously, to sort through the assorted morsels: corn, millet, sunflower seeds. Once he selected one, he picked it up in her beak and transferred it to hers - over and over and over again. She took the sustenance from him, wings still spread wide as a rising phoenix.
Their ritual transfixed me: I had seen mama birds feed their young, but never a male feed a female. In between bites, they chattered to each other. I translated in my imagination, “Thank you, honey, that was a good one!” “No problem, love you!”
The intense intimacy moved me so that I felt like a voyeur - like I should look away and leave them to their privacy. Also, though, it amused me: Was he mansplaining the finer points of al fresco dining? Ordering for her assuming he could better choose her meal than she could? Picking out her food because he felt she had put on just a little too much fat for the coming winter?
But no, their gestures and mannerisms belied a caring tenderness that I envied and craved. I found myself feeling wistful and jealous of this volitant pair. Hell, I’d settle for someone making me a cuppa every now and then.
My birdseed bills pile up. My back hurts from picking the 20 pound bags up. My feathered friends leave a mess for me to clean up. But my moments watching them is something I’ll never give up.