BIRD WATCHING IN THE BACK YARD

From my brothers James I have inherited a love of watching birds in the back yard. Under his patio roof, suspended above the indoor-outdoor carpet, he hung a hopper bird feeder that attracted the bravest creatures, those unfazed by their own reflection in the sliding glass door, the noises of the television, or the sudden movements and sounds of the peoples inside.

Beyond that, he had a bird bath in the middle of a bed of azaleas, and beyond that an old-time colony of martin houses, made from gourds my uncle had grown and dried and hung from a pipe-metal stand he had fabricated and painted white the same color as the house. “They eat the mosquitoes, man,” he’d remind me about why the martins were so important.

My version is a multi-tiered feeder that was a gift from friends in Memphis—hanging from a post along my back deck. I can watch the birds from the kitchen table and I’m always cheered by the redbirds, as brother James called them. Today at lunch I saw a woodpecker amidst the familiar flock of sparrows, finches, wrens, and doves (who are too big to perch on the feeder and so wait with the squirrels and chipmunks for leftovers rain down). The other day my father spotted a bluebird on our fence in the back yard and remarked on the rarity of it.

At breakfast today my son discovered a cardinal that had flown into our glass door and was lying on it back, apparently near death, on the back step. It was barely conscious and panting rapidly. I felt instantly desperate: How could we save it? What if it was a mother with babies or eggs to care for? What about its mate? My wife Betty pointed out there was little we could do and that we had to wait until after we finish breakfast to decide anyway.

By the time breakfast was over it was upright and one step lower, breathing more normally with it wing splayed out beside it. By lunchtime it was gone. My son assumed a full recovery—Betty and I were less optimistic. But maybe it managed to hop down into the azaleas bush to heal. Maybe it wing was only bruised. Maybe it had already sent it young on their way. Maybe a cat had found it. We had lots to consider at the lunch table, thanks to James.