A Small Visitor

I was going to spend these last minutes before 'work' this morning reading a Wall Street Journal article on how President Obama is going to tout his effort on JOBS (you know, the 3-letter word Biden referred to on the campaign trail) during tonight's State of the Union, but I decided I couldn't take the spike in my blood pressure. Nope, not today.

Luckily, I was easily distracted by an incessant chirping coming from just outside the kitchen window. Why so distracting? Well, for one, it is January, and other than an occasional caw from a crow, there's not much bird song around. And B (joke for JBL), we don't normally have birdsong so close to the house, given our distinct lack of trees.

On the east side of the kitchen, however, there is a willow-leafed viburnum that has recently grown to a tree-like capacity. It started out, like many of the plants in my garden tucked in the southeast corner between the laundry room and kitchen, a modest-sized bush. But with all the sun and protection from the worst of winter's winds, I have had to hack it back to half its height (a good 6 feet tall this time last year) numerous times. Once the ornamental grasses and hydrangeas also exploded, I kind of gave up on the trimming. My regret (the viburnum now appears to be a dense bush with a mop of thin hair on top sticking straight up as though it had been frightened by a gun shot) is tempered by the fact that the bush now apparently is welcoming to small birds.

So this morning: chirp, chirp, chirp. I don't mean to be generic with my description. That's precisely what it sounded like, and I was intrigued. Hot coffee mug in hand, I eased quietly towards the window, and immediately saw the source of song, and was surprised. Small, reddish-brown, white stripe over the eye, speckled stomach, and a tail tilted upwards. A Carolina wren? Of course they are common in this area, but I think of them as birds frequenting heavily wooded areas.

This supposition is based on my childhood exposure to birds, which came from the backyard of my parents' heavily-wooded property. Mornings, afternoons, and evenings, every season of the year contained bird songs that are forever etched in my heart. Spring brought the occasional bob-white, cat birds, swarms of black birds, and of course the robin. Early summer found us straining to hear the first call of the brown wood thrush. Sometimes my dad would note the song of an oriole. We were delighted to catch rare glimpses of pileated woodpeckers, pheasants and turkeys. Fall was marked by Canadian geese flying overhead. My mother always noted with excitement the first juncos feeding on the bird seed sprinkled on our deck as harbingers of snowfall. Deep winter days exposed bright red cardinals and black-capped chickadees in hollies and yew bushes close to the house. The relentless call of the male cardinal, like a broken record, was tempered by the chickadee's more demure, giggle-like song. Some birds were ever-present, like mourning doves, blue jays, finches, titmice, hawks, nuthatches and the Carolina wren.

Typically, I committed to memory my cursory understanding of what I learned, proud of my knowledge, without attempting to research more deeply. Thus my surprise at seeing what I thought was a woodland-only bird outside my window. Come to find out wrens are happy in any underbrush or man-made structure that keeps them hidden and safe. Thank you internet, and my parents' old Field Guide to the Birds (copyright 1960).

I was also delighted by this visit, as it brought back to me a vivid dream I was having just before the alarm clock sounded. I was shopping in a jewelry and antique store with my mother. We were enjoying trying on rings, and admiring various things around the shop. My mom was relaxed and happy, and I was glad to be with her.

To see this little wren, though calling out in an unfamiliar communication compared to the chirpity-chirpity-chirpity-chirp I am accustomed to, made me feel like my mother was still with me. Who knows what it means....perhaps a needed hug during a time when I am on shaky ground, perhaps a gentle reminder to notice joyful things around me, or maybe just a prod to trim the damned viburnum already. In any event, he was a little visitor who brought a smile to my face.