It’s easy to fall into despair while watching the news these days through the fog of a mild fever.
This has been a miserable winter, and not just because we’ve been watching civilization get trumped by a madman.
Not even because of the ridiculous amount of snow.
I was a fool, too busy or had better things to do, than to get my flu shot last fall. Consequently, I’ve been under the weather, on and off almost constantly, for nearly the past three months.
I’m not sure if it’s the same flu returning again and again, or several flus attacking in succession.
I’ve been feeling especially miserable over it, and while I vowed to put aside my penchant for procrastination next fall, that’s not going to serve me through my current fever.
But when I took a short break from feeling sorry for myself to look out the window, I gained a new perspective.
In the front yard we have a 20-foot acer japonica – a Japanese maple. The red leaves it had shed last November were replaced with red-breasted robins, dozens of them – more than I’ve ever seen in one place before.
They looked sad, each huddled alone among their fellows in the fluffs of snow clinging to the branches with them.
They were taking turns at chowing down on our nearby holly tree’s berries.
Out back, our even smaller ironwood had an even more astounding cluster of varied thrushes. I’ve never seen more than two or three in our yard before – nothing like today.
Juncos, a few flickers, a towie, and our stalwart stellars jay couple were alternately swarming a small rump of suet left in the feeding cage and scrabbling futilely at the foot and a half of snow covering whatever hopes of nourishment lay beneath.
The chickadees were working on the dregs in the sunflower seed dispenser.
Several small birds, including some I haven’t been able to identify, were scratching at mounds of snow that were no longer identifiable as birdbaths.
It occurred to me they have no hot showers or warm beds for their misery.
My fever persists, not likely helped much by my dashing through the snow to provide our feathered friends and visitors with water and seedy sustenance.
But instead of wallowing in self-pity, I now rest a little easier with the understanding that feeling sorry is for the birds.
