On many days in my own backyard, I wonder about the birds that somehow find “home” in this postage stamp of waning suburbia. My yard used to be oak, hickory, and pine, but was turned by someone’s idea of “progress” some forty years ago from wild forest to feral fragment. A place where hosta and privet and mulberry and sunflower and dooryard violet and butterfly bush and struggling tomato reign. (Many would claim these should not be here at all, in favor of “natives”). In the midst of all that, I sit and watch and wonder how the wrens, cardinals, robins, chickadees, thrashers, pine warblers, chipping sparrows, house finches, titmice, bluebirds, woodpeckers, doves, mockingbirds, and nuthatches survive.
Beyond the glimpses at feeders and fountains and the familiar calls that fall…
