In the morning they come. Before the sun climbs over the roof of the house. While the cool 82 degrees of morning remain. Before the heat begins to bake the dust. They come for a drink.
First come the Lesser Goldfinches. They perch on the Coneflowers and pick at the dry seed heads and flit around in the underbrush near to where we’ve set the water out. They drink in staccato bursts of nervousness, afraid of anything that moves, gone at a moment’s notice.
And then the Sparrows come. In a swarm they come, a dozen or so this morning. As the line of the shadow of the roof was beginning to move across what used to be lawn. They roll in the bark and the dust. The splash in the water. They chase each other. And then in a flash they’re all gone.
And then the Bluejays and Mockingbirds come. The sun is climbing higher now, and the yard is growing hot. They perch in the branches of the Monterey Oak and the Lacey Oak and gaze longingly at the water in the pans on the ground. And they fly down one at a time, following some kind of avian pecking order. And then they’re gone.
And finally there are the Mourning Doves. They strut around, pecking at the leaves, guzzling the water. And when they fly off, their wing stripes flash whitely.
“I haven’t seen any Grackles, lately,” I said to Trudy. “Have you?”
“Well yes,” she said.
But we couldn’t remember when, and whereas a couple months ago it seemed that we had nothing but Grackles, I confess that their absence makes me smile.
They must have succumbed to the heat. It’s not charitable of me to say this, but I confess I’m not sad to think it.