A New Bird-Watcher's Notion of Hail to the Victors
Deeply entrenched in middle age, I have become a bird-watcher. This autumn, bird-watching had become almost as significant to me as the early Saturday evening overview of college gridiron scores. Confirmation on whether the golden-finches have left for warmer birdfeeders is suddenly rising to almost match the details of Michigan State University’s fumble recovery ratio and quarterback sack stats. Waiting a few months of college football Saturdays, I discover there are no warmer birdfeeders in the gold finches plans. They’ve stayed and they always stay. It seems my assumption that brightly colored birds migrate to warmer, more colorful winter environs was wrong. But they do change their color, from yellow to drab brown—evidently so they can blend in better with the snow-filled winters void of yellow things. Perhaps I should paint my bird feeder yellow, prompting them to change their minds.
We now have two custom-built feeders, one in the back yard and one in front—three feeders, if you count the gold-finch sack hanging from a thin, iron post. The custom-built ones were put together by my father-in-law who long ago noted the luster lapped on to one’s life by the addition of these glorious visual focal points. To birds the feeders beckon, “Come and dine,” To the habitually busy humans, “Come and watch and wonder.” And unlike the football extravaganzas, I can provide my own color commentary.
And as Christmas approaches, all but the bowl-bound football teams are recounting what might have been. But the birds keep showing up, oblivious to Top Ten rankings and BCS manipulations, oblivious to what might have been. And amongst the gold finch population, the feeding sack has become the bird equivalent of the proverbial watering hole. When the sack is full, I’ve seen up to half-a-dozen finches feeding. But as the seeds in the sack diminish, there’s room for fewer birds, and the competition for feeding time increases. Usually, their gracious temperament allows them to wait in line patiently for their turn at the trough. But the smaller the space, the more quickly the temper flare. “C’mon, time’s up!” they squawk to one another, inevitably prompting their finch cousin to limit their gorge to three additional seeds.
And this Christmas I ponder my role in feeding the birds. Our Lord said birds don’t worry about where and how they’re going to eat, not sowing or reaping or storing food in barns. It is our good Father who feeds them, but not with giant, bird seed-filled hand jetting through the clouds. One of His strategies is to get me to feed them, though I’m quite confident their survival doesn’t solely depend upon my weekly replenishing routine. And neither does Michigan State’s football performance depend upon my weekly spectating routine. But I’m confident that the birds are served, even eased by my service. But the football score is not altered an extra point whether I spectate or not.
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