The sign affixed to the shed clearly claims our position as a wildlife refuge center. Posted with confidence, we love our title. Each year, Winterpast provides water, food, and nesting materials to passing wildlife. Yes, to even random toads and squirrels.
Here at Winterpast, each morning begins the same way. We wake to wings. Not the dramatic, biblical kind, but the everyday miracle of small birds arriving for breakfast as if they’ve all synced their watches. Before we’re dressed for the day, the feeders are already busy, and the day has declared itself open for business.
HHH, benevolent provider-in-chief, keeps the operation running smoothly. Bags of bird seed are generously poured into feeders that don’t stay full for long. The finches arrive first, clinging to the sides and swaying back and forth like tiny trapeze artists. .
Below them, polite but persistent coveys of quail scurry to collect whatever falls from above. Moving with purpose, they always seem slightly hurried, as if they’re late for an important meeting elsewhere. With nothing wasted, this is a very efficient dining establishment.
The civilized world frowns on this. Don’t feed the wildlife, upset the natural flow of things, or get involved with the wildlife.
A true story comes to mind. Along the Pacific Coast, one sweet little old lady LOVED birds so much, she put up 50 feeders on her tiny, oceanfront lot. What goes in, must come out. The birds ate, and then…….ate some more. Soon, the roofs of unhappy neighbors became so soiled that professional cleaning became necessary. The California Department of Fish and Game became involved, threatening a court date unless the feeding stopped. All delicious intrigue for a tiny little street just feet above the Pacific Ocean. HHH has been warned…. It could happen anywhere (except on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada).
Noticeably absent is the squirrel. Not gone. Just…not here YET. His absence feels temporary, suspicious even. For now, we’re realistically optimistic.
As the feeders sway and the seeds fall, spring quietly begins assembling itself around us. Our birdhouses stand ready like freshly built subdivisions awaiting new tenants. Soon enough, nests will appear, followed by chirping babies and their fretful parents. Watching from a respectful distance, we’ll pretend to focus on pruning while making mental notes of their activities.
Of course, ever nearby and watchful is the hawk. Perched patiently, he surveys the scene like a diner reviewing the menu. While calmly waiting, he’s confident that eventually, dinner will make a mistake. The circle of life is alive and well, even during breakfast hours.
Hope and faith are reinforced on these frigid mornings. The return of birds. Winter life continues, quietly and insistently, right outside the window. Spring doesn’t announce itself loudly here but simply shows up, feathered and hungry, reminding us that once again, the season has turned.
At Winterpast, the refuge is open, and feeders are full. Hope, like the birds, never really left at all.
