Tethered

Before he left, Chema hung our bird feeder again. We had removed it this past spring when we learned of a salmonella outbreak that was killing flocks of pine siskins at feeders. Chema moved the feeder to a different tree—the green ash that split in a lightning storm two summers ago—so we can enjoy it from the couch, and also because there are fewer places for the neighbors’ cat to hide beneath this tree. So now I am filled daily with joy, terror, and responsibility. One could argue I don’t need more things to feel vigilant over these days. But I naturally feel a sense of responsibility for the birds we bring into the feeder. Shouldn’t we all?

Because the feeder hangs higher than it used to, Chema designed a sort of pulley system so that I can fill it while he’s gone. The feeder is one of the cylindrical ones with three sets of perches. It’s hung from a long piece of yellow climbing rope slung over a high branch in the tree. The slack line is then pulled diagonally where a lower branch connects with the trunk, making a triangle between the feeder and the tree. The rope is tied off, or rather clipped, with a carabiner at the base of the lower branch. To fill it, I unclip the carabiner and let the weight of the feeder lower itself to a height at which I can remove the cap and pour more seed in. All of this I expect to do one handed, because I don’t want to risk losing the rope, though Chema says I won’t.

Today a female downy woodpecker came straight to the feeder (female because she doesn’t sport the patch of red at the nape like the male). Normally I see her climbing the green ash trees, using toe grips to propel herself up the trunk of the tree. Sometimes I wonder if she’s harvesting the seeds the chickadee deliberately stored for later—I know the magpie is. A flock of finches came in this morning too, streaky. The pinkish-red of the male fills me up, like color returning to cheeks after stepping back inside on a blustery day. The chickadees flit around, storing seeds, and the doves supervise, waiting to drop down to feed on spilled seed. It’s a jostling and pecking order that brings me great delight to observe. And what a gift, to have a partner who protects my joy in this way by putting the feeder back up—raising my spirits, which hang by a cord, tethered to a tree.