The bluejay is shaking something apart in the sodden yard. His head twitches and this motion turns his body. The white of his tail feathers catches the light that is tepidly declaring itself to be day from behind the clouds.
The jay works the yard in sections, and a small crew of sparrows follows. They are oblivious to the rain, bobbing on the dead stand of hyssop and bouncing along the muddy ground. I realize the bluejay, joined by his mate, has moved downstage to the tree by the back fence. As if choreographed, the red of a cardinal swoops across my field of vision.
The Hubs has asked for bird and tree identification books for Christmas.
There are now four bluejays; there are now none. And I see my neighbor’s umbrella make its way down the path of the adjoining yard.
The empty stage is waiting for the birds to return, debris scattered like so many carefully placed props. We wanted to make it look like children live here. And birds. And worms. A wormy, messy scene, perfect for bird action to unfold.
Thus far we are not much past the exposition. A brief intermission. The second act is slow to unfold. An offstage whistler, a glimpse of rushing wing. At the time of this writing the birds have not yet returned. But the drama will unfold tomorrow, it is Dickensian in its revelation. Many characters and many narrative parts, over many many days.
The birds don’t worry about Christmas shopping or family etiquette or travel stressors. They are advent birds, waiting, waiting for whatever is to come. They are a bright candle of hope in the ever browning foliage.
Post 11 of Waiting: An Advent Series