Mourning For Breakfast Bird-watching

One side of our house is made of glass and once upon a time

it was graced by shady trees and a hedge - a veritable hawthorn fortress

stuffed full with birds – sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and tits of every colour.

In spring they would announce their presence in the early hours -

wakening us from our winter slumbers and reconnecting our senses to the world.

Then later we would watch them from our kitchen table while drinking tea and eating Rice Krispies.

We delighted in their darting - From the hedge to the feeders - from the feeders to the hedge.

Until it was time for us to go about our business -

kids to school,

husband and I to work –

And leave them to go about theirs

from the hedge to the feeders

from the feeders to the hedge

Except on Wednesdays

when I stayed home

and washed dishes,

sorted the mail,

fluffed cushions

and watched the birds feather their nests.

Then one morning if we were lucky, we might notice, a very busy corner in our hedge.

And if we ventured into the garden to peer between the green leaves - nestled in amongst barbs and spikey branches we might find a nest, nurturing tiny eggs.

Thereafter we would observe more carefully

while drinking tea

and eating Rice Krispies

or Fish Fingers

or what ever food fad that appealed at the time –

Patiently waiting for a flurry of activity that would signal –

they had broken out of their calcium carbonate prisons

and that they too, were hungry and wanting fed.

Year on year we watched and waited.

Waited and delighted.

Rice crispies became muesli

Fish fingers became cod

And food fads came and went along with the birds.

Until – one day they were no more.

Gone - both the hedge and my birds.

One taken by neighbours who wanted a tidy life

And the others - flown –

to find their own hedges to watch.

And now I am in mourning for breakfast bird-watching.