I love to watch wildlife. There are two spruce hens under the feeders this morning. They are comfortably plump. They look warm. They peck away at the black sunflower seeds that the red squirrel has scooped over the ledge and scattered on the snow below.
We’ve recently had a pair of fat whiskyjacks. Chickadees and nuthatches show up. Grosbeaks and redpolls are frequent visitors. A downy woodpecker calls occasionally, hammering away
at the suet bag, or nosing through the seeds on the platform looking for members of the Phylum Arthropoda. When that process pales, it hammers away at the siding on our home. Which, I trust, is relatively insect-free.
One reason I admire wildlife is that they are survivors. I sometimes imagine how I would fare if turned loose in the wild and forced to forage for my food. I imagine myself well-dressed, of course. Still, it would not be a breeze. So, Olga and I are happy to provide supplementary nourishment to a few of nature’s survivors.
We get visits from ravens too. Some people don’t like ravens. Speak ill of them. Go out of their way to discourage their presence. Not me. I do feel ill at ease, from time to time, when they visit the feeders, because they can pose a danger to other critters, but I do admire them. If I were leading a wild life, on my own, out in nature, my first choice of persona would be the raven. Fierce enough to intimidate most other creatures my size, and clever enough to find food in unlikely places.
As a raven, I could deal with the enmity of others, even humans, so long as I was well fed. And warm.