Too many colours to count
For the record, our home is turning into a syrup dispensary. Hummingbirds… I won’t take the blame, nor claim the fame. At last count there were three feeders already in place, with a fourth one in reserve. The intensity of the aerial battles is increasing; the tiny flying siphons are territorial. Oh, and a trapeze, suspended from one of my antennas; the birds haven’t discovered it, yet.
Elsewhere (one district to the west) a cardinal has been sighted and photographed. No, not a baseball player, nor a high prince of the Church. A red bird. Rare. In fact, I expect a traffic jam in the area, tomorrow, after social media has broadcast the appearance and the location.
Birds are important in this house. I can’t claim to be able to identify many of the obscure species, but that requires a level of colour vision that I lack. I can handle the jays and the crows; all the rest are variations on a theme. Someone actually said that you could distinguish some of the cast of thousands by their song. Colour me unsure.
I called home this afternoon. More precisely, my mother’s home. Decided to catch up on the neighbourhood news. For the record, all those shouting children I could hear in the background belongs to other families. Grandchildren, apparently. I want to mention that when we arrived in that neighbourhood, more than a half-century ago, there were no known grandparents on the street. All of the new recruits (as of the present) are proof that some streets keep their folks through several generations.
