Bird Life

Bird Life                                 by Betsy Holleman

The male cardinal flies into my window over and over.  He launches himself

from the dead hydrangea flowers, beats his wings on the glass. He practices

for mating season, besting male rivals for a choice brown female.  Dozens of birds

live in my garden, feed on berries and thistles.  This week a strange cat showed up,

sneaking around the rosemary.  Now no sign of cardinal. We know cats hunt

at night, kill birds by the billions.  The number is shocking. Silence greets us

in the woods near the Potomac.  The trees are empty of birds.  Growing up

feral cat Thomas lived under our porch, surprising us with a litter. My father put

the kittens into a bag, dropped it off a bridge.  “It was the right thing to do.”

Birds were disappearing. My grandmother loved to watch them feeding

on the purple figs. She sat for hours in the sunroom.  Our first floor bathroom was 

through her bedroom.  No privacy for her there.  Once we saw her getting dressed

wearing something called teddies. It is hard to live in a house one bedroom

short.  She loved us.  There is no such thing as indignity.