The dead and rain-sodden body of a tiny chickadee lays on our deck beneath the kitchen windows. He evidently misjudged his route between the birdfeeder and the nearby trees and collided with the glass. It happens so seldom, but whenever it does I have the urge to stand in the window like a scarecrow for the next few days and warn the other birds away. That’s not a sensible solution, of course. Pulling down the blinds or relocating the feeder would be a better idea. But with the blinds closed I would have to have the lights on during these dark wintry days, and the bears destroy the feeders when I put them anywhere else.
My dilemma would be solved if I simply chose not to feed the birds but that’s not a decision I want to make. I love to see them lined up on the railing hovering impatiently as they wait their turn for tasty seeds or bits of suet. In the past hour alone there have been two Flickers and several chickadees, nuthatches and juncos plus a cheeky squirrel all vying for their dinner reservations. They are a delight to watch, but when one gives his life for my pleasure it makes me question my priorities.
Perhaps a wreath hung in each window will act as a beacon on the flight path and solve my problem at least until the Christmas season is over.
But for now there’s a pint-sized funeral service and burial to conduct.