Family
and how we forget ourselves
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
There is a Blackbird who frequents our garden. David is an early riser, and so typically tends to the morning distribution of seeds and worms, and this Blackbird has become very fond of him. He’ll flutter down, right by David’s feet, waiting with fervent gaze for breakfast to be served. He is one of many characters who grace our days.
Last year, we had a family of Pheasants who spent most of their time in our garden. Initially just a Mr & Mrs, and then one day three babies—two male, one female. The pair were skittish at first, as Pheasants tend to be, flapping away and squawking dramatically when either of us appeared; though after a month or so this turned into a cursory stepping away as we put food down, before charging back once we’d turned. That quickly progressed to them coming to the house at dawn, and screeching their Pheasanty calls whenever we’d had the audacity not to feed them as soon as the sun came up.