Winterbirds

         With the cold weather comes the delicate lace that blooms from the dirty corners of the weathered panes. The intricate ice webs catch the strange early winter sun struggling to ascend the slate skies, making a pearlescent curtain on the double windows. They are the only windows that sit side by side, silent and modest. On the wooden chest in front of these portals, on eerie celestial mornings, I would spy my mom swaddled in blankets swaying a little. She was the only thing alive and breathing in the vague, shadowed room. She looked odd; the light turned her face a grey color when she peered through the glass. I would try my best to keep the creaking wooden stairs still, but they whine and groaned, stubborn and obnoxious. With the sound of the steps, she would look up and the peculiar ashiness of her skin would drain away. She would get up, shuffle into the shadowed kitchen and return with a close mouthed smile. Together, we would sit and watch the vacant bird feeders with steaming cups of tea and sleepy eyes.          



        On particularly dark mornings they would keep us waiting and sipping. Our tea would grow strong and bitter and the harsh winds would hiss through the cracks of the old windows. Then, all at once, it seemed, the birds would flutter carelessly from the naked branches of the forsythia bush to the tower of feeders. This pole with its many arms and legs cast out the seed silos and flutes of berries that the winged creatures came for. The tower was a strange monument during the winter months. The flourishing morning glories that had wildly wrapped themselves on the pole over and over again hung lifeless; a mess of dirty shoelaces and tangled brown hair. The birds never minded this much; it provided a land of opportunity and a maze of hiding places.          



        The salt and pepper chickadees came nervous and fat. They'd creep over to the feeders, stuff their petite cheeks, and flee back to the comfort of the barren bush. They seemed to always be in fear of the bold and fearless; the ones that arrived late with flashes of loud colors that screamed against the silent snow. The valiant cardinal would come dressed in his array of reds, accompanied by his dowdy, but loving, mate. The couple commanded the feeders with an air of nobility for as long as necessary and then just flitter away with no attention to the others.          



      The house finches, titmouse, and barn swallows came wearing their corduroy jackets and tweed slacks only to take interest in the fallen shells and oily sunflower seeds. These birds never seemed afraid like the chickadees, not even of the lordliest blue jays that rush in with their severe mohawks and sharp beaks. They were arrogant and bossy anyway, too haughty for their own good.          



      My mom would linger away, unnoticed, and return to pour bubbling water into my cold teacup and we'd blow the lofty steam away in curling tufts. We'd suck in the white hot air and melt away the frosty corners of the glass with our molten breath. Her face would lighten and the wrinkles would soften with the gold finches, tarnished and muddy with lack of warmth and sunshine in their blood. Hanging upside down from the feeders, the birds do not mind their winter attire. During these winters, they just joined the common phoebes and thrushes. They know will blossom again, like the forsythia, with subtle charm and unrivaled beauty, and when the air is soft and sweet we will be there to drink our lemonade by the open windows and watch.