Hard Weather

Hen Pheasants

The sky pewter, still full of snow, which, after a few hours respite, is falling heavily again. Swirling in the bitter wind, it's laying down another pristine blanket on top of the already soiled and compacted slush out on the road, crusting up the verges, becoming a fine base layer for freezing the rain that is expected to fall tomorrow.

The garden birds were frisky yesterday - hopping and squawking, tiffing and snow-bathing. But today - and after several bitter nights, they just hang about, looking depressed and exhausted. The now-solitary Moorhen no longer bothers to scurry away when he sees me. He sits down, instead, alongside the tray covered in bird-seed and pecks in a half hearted way at only what he can reach. (Has his mate, who always visited with him, succumbed to the cold?).

The cock Pheasant is still strutting magisterially up from the bottom garden bed; the hens huddle separately, down by the summerhouse and only come to the feeder trays at mid-day to fill up before retiring again to the relative warmth of  piles of leaf mould and the convergence of fence and  shed wall which may give a modicum of shelter.

The cloud of snow is growing ever thicker. The afternoon feed - bread, cheese, sunflower seed, muesli - scattered on the ground and up on the bird table needs to go down and essential pans of water need to be topped up, now, before the already darkening day gets darker and the falling snow covers all.

As we eye each other

Fear and gratitude pass between us…

…we exchange our gifts.

Redwing

 

 

Comments

[Mad Englishwoman]

So beautifully observed. Such lovely detail.