When I opened the back blinds this morning, the first thing I saw was the impossibly vivid red of one of the resident cardinals feeding in the grass. A mourning dove sat serenely in a feeder and a migrating yellow … warbler? goldfinch? … grabs a bite of sunflower seeds from a hanging feeder in the Rose of Sharon. Before long, a hummingbird swoops in on the freshly filled feeder hanging on the back porch, back on the mountain after its annual northern migration across the Gulf of Mexico.

I’ve begun to think of my current existence as a full-time caregiver as a hermitage and the back yard activities (and a book) provide entertainment and release. I keep the feeders filled, scatter more seed in the grass, and am aware of the birds fluttering to the nearby trees to watch and chatter among themselves whenever I emerge to maintain the services. I go about my tasks and go inside and to the window to watch as they return to their business. If I sit quietly on the porch glider, they will resume despite me, and I can get a closer look. Or maybe a decent photo.

A squirrel will join in on occasion and eat its fill; the spicy bird mix I scatter doesn’t seem to deter the squirrels and that doesn’t bother me. The chipmunk that has burrowed its own hermitage under a small storage shed in the back makes cautious and fleeting appearances; when Lulu the intrepid chihuahua was still alive, she’d begin and end each backyard foray by sniffing at the chipmunk tunnel. She was thinking I know you’re there. Come out please! Actually, I have no idea what Lulu was thinking but it’s easy to assign personalities to them all as they scurry about.

Some fowl are easily identifiable for me, and others fall into categories like “little grey bird.” I hesitate to be more specific for fear of misidentification; I’ve been called on it by eagle-eyed readers in the past. I frequently have a pocket-sized copy of a color-coded “Birds of Alabama” handy and a heavy volume of Audubon’s The Birds of America sits on the coffee table at my house. I contribute to Audubon societies, but when I am offered access to a bird-watching expedition, I pass. I prefer to be a solo wanderer in the bird world, blissful in my relative ignorance, identifying what is readily identifiable and leaving the others at peace. If I have a need to know, I can easily find out. The birds know who they are and I don’t have to be a maven of identification. (On a related note, have you ever been to a truly serious wine tasting? Pretty joyless affair, isn’t it? They spit it out!?!)

Happy Spring, whether it’s in the backyard or far afield. Or maybe you’ve just flown across the Gulf of Mexico.