Patters

Sparrow Hide-Out

Rain Melting Snow

A patter at the wood pile reveals a tiny masked bird beak-tapping for snacks. It's a white-crowned sparrow, darting from evergreen to porch and back in search of flies. Have you heard the saying, "Coming out of the woodwork like flies"? Well, it is true. Those beastly black pests burrow into holes, cracks and bark, becoming stowaways within my firewood. By evening, flies are wobbling about any lit light, drunk on the warmth of a hibernation interrupted.

Later, at my desk upstairs, rain patters hard against the southern window like the crumpling of tin. It pings in big drops and I stand at the wet-smeared window scanning Elmira Pond. Todd walks over and asks after ducks, but there are none today. He comments that the pond is growing. It is. That and the tall reeds and grass of late summer are bent by the winds, snow and heavy rains such as this.

Patter, patter, my fingers poke at computer keys. It is the rhythm of the day, perhaps of the season. Writing. Birding. Watching rain drops fall.