By Michael Suchorsky
I left the door open while standing on the deck admiring the last brushstrokes of Fall: brilliant red sumac here and there, a splash of bright yellow from a few poplars and sugar maples joining in with willow, mulberry, and lilac in the earth-tone landscape.
Back indoors while cooking I hear an occasional out-of-place sound in the room. Finally, I notice a chickadee calmly flitting about. I grab a cup of birdseed, and, while standing by the open door whistle the chickadees calming minor third song. They always look at me askance when I do that, not only because I’m often singing it out of the seasons of love, but I’m the wrong species. I feel they are frowning and thinking, “What’s up with that?”
As I stood there, chickadees started flying through the open door into the house, landing on the cup, taking seed, then exiting. The chickadee across the room observes the proceedings with interest, but stays perched atop the stained glass lantern. Suddenly, 3 chickadees fly into the living room and just fly about. Now I have 4 chickadees in the room.
Walking the cup of seed out on the deck I am followed by three chickadees. Back in the house I cross the room and stand a foot away from the perched bird, who looks at me like I should offer it a drink. I open a couple of windows, take down the screens, and the bird, perhaps bored with my company, finally exits.
I look at the downed screens, the open windows, my unprepared lunch; I look at the cloudy skies and think, ‘Sup?”~