A Field Day

David at the window this morning  come quick you've got to see this.   Looking out over the neighboring field I don't see a thing.  Then suddenly I realize the field, small grassy  hummocks, winter-burned brown with a few stray tufts of bitter gamboge here and there , is covered in birds.  Hundred of birds. Mostly titmice and juncos, sparrows and chickadees.  Robins. Thrush.  It is as though all the woodland birds from a Natural History of the Birds of Eastern North America have jumped the color plates and landed in this small meadow.

Incredible that the first glance revealed not one bird.  Then, by a trick of the eye it seemed, they are everywhere.  Heads down or hopping, they are not singing a single note.  Instead they feast.  Bugs of all sorts and worms, delicious fat and juicy worms, have been drawn to a surface left wet by the recent covering of snow.  Now suddenly warm, after days of being iced-in with the pickings slim, the meadow holds a feast and the birds are having a field day. After hearing that expression all my life I'm  finally lucky enough to see one.  A field day.