14 October 2012
This morning, as I prepared to move my somewhat hungover body from bed, Canada geese flew over honking and shitting like pissed up Canuck fans after a rare play-off win. From the trees out back I could hear previously quiet songbirds answer the sky Cadillacs with their own happy calls.
Have not been many birds around the house this summer. Too fucking dry, especially for the worm eaters.
Now, like the rain, and unlike NHL hockey, they are back.
About one hundred robins rocked the back garden today. Tree to tree, limb to limb they have bounced like our motherfucking Prime Minister between Chinese companies he can give away Canada's past, present and future to. From there they take turns hauling worms and (I hope) leatherjacket eggs from the Hammer's cratered territory. In the craters they take baths and drink like they have not drunk for months.
Amongst them a female northern flicker, not a bird I have seen from my kitchen window in the past, pecked the grass for her meal. The robins, who trust no one, kept an eye on me in the window. The flicker, a bird after my own northern heart, did not give a fuck.
The raven may be my favourite bird but the songbirds, who I have designed my back garden habitat to attract and please, have always been there for me when I need them, like I needed them today.