Cold enough to annoy sparrows

We had a high of zero the other day. I love weather. I love the adventure inherent in booger freezing face numbing cold. I think going out when it's 4 degrees and working up a sweat is a good idea.

The sparrows are the arbiters of avian popular opinion. First the sparrows come and if they congregate other birds will make an appearance. I was talking with John Swinton, or emailing him, and he pointed this out. This day the sparrows were definitely pissed off. They puffed their feathers and pulled in their necks, tried to double-tuck their wings down over their legs. They hung on tight with their desperately chilly toes and cursed the day their ancestors decided that Iowa winters were survivable. But, hell, a sparrow's gotta eat.

I tried to get a picture of the poor things trying to land on a moving birdfeeder with snow blowing around them, but I'm just not that good. It's hard work not freezing to death and they'd land and grab and blow off, nearly dislocating their little beaks as they slammed them against the feeder. Nothing graceful about it.









Normally these guys scatter if they see us in the window, but it was sheltered in the bush right next to the house and so the sparrows compromised for the most part. There they were, right outside the window glass from the dog, and they knew it. "Hell with it. Kill us. It's warmer over here."

We have booger stains all over the front window, just at Tye's nose level. Tye the ornithologist.



It was a good morning drinking coffee and watching bird antics with the dog. I just finished Close Range by Annie Proulx. It contains Brokeback Mountain and a number of other astoundingly beautiful stories, achingly sad. So I read and watched birds and thought about contrast, much like Else in her comment on my last post. Glad I'm not a sparrow.

God's eye on on him, but it looks like a cold job, thankless, and with little room for advancement.

That father ranting about a last minute Christmas visit with his institutionalized child knows he lost it somewhere. His kid's in someone else's care and he's left looking for some righteous ground to stand on. He'll bond with his kid against "staff" and prove to his kid that he can't give structure. Once again he'll confirm what his kid already knows. There's no safety this Christmas, either.

Sitting in my warm room, my toes scrunching soft Persian carpet, drinking dark java, I listen to my son talking to his friend over his XBox Live. Santiago is back in Medellin Colombia having Christmas with his mother's family. He and his cousin in Medellin log on and they all play zombie killing games together, bilingually, and gossip about their friends.

When I get lonesome, and I can't sleep I count my blessings instead of sheep and I fall asleep counting my blessings. Merry Christmas.