Spring is singing through the garden at the Edge of Broceliande. Mist swirls the forest paths, oozes fingers into the garden to tease the cultivated plants with it's scent of wildness.
There are songs in the mist, songs wrapt in silver rain and fog smoke. The plants drink them in. Deeply. Down to the smallest rootlet. The song takes hold and returns a hundred fold, thrumming through the land, the forest, the garden.
The Earth is alive and singing. The breath of life is passed along the wind and the earths children life love on in the most basic dance of all.
Much fluttering and flapping of wings goes on where the Grackles have chosen to nest. They choose to be up under the eaves in an old nesting box. There will be eggs in soon.
I weed and rake and plant and hoe. There are fat grubs in the garden, tightly curled in the earth. Found out they try to wiggle off. I toss them into an old cake pan and the Grackles come for free handouts. Both the Grackles and I approve. no poison in my garden even for grubs, so this is balance, I admit to fierce glee as the Grackles grab and fly.
They caught on quick. Often I could touch them as thay raid the pan. Wings whir with their commings and goings. Sometimes they get an earthworm that is cut in the digging. Grackles are not particular. Worms, Grackles and grubs are all pleantiful.
There will be a second nest full by June. Then more noisy peeping will awaken me and make the cats desparate.
The cats are enjoying their sunny perches, or would if the Grackles were inclined to let them. Which, of course, they are not. Highly annoyed by the presence of flegling eaters the grackles and the Wrens scream, berate and dive bomb the poor cats. The cats, fed up, retreat to the house from their cat cage. Hoping for peace...or at least the chance to get one of their annoyers.
I do my best to keep bird and cat apart, but every now and again a stray flegling, wing weak, will flutter to a quick death in the cats pen.
I do not blame the cats for being cats. nor the birds for being birds. I try only to keep them as apart as I can.
The birds do not help by dive bombing the cats even when they are sleeping in their enclosure.
I do not blame the cats for their annoyance, the birds have dive bombed me.
Instinct tells the birds that the cats and I are the intruders into their garden and their world. The balance during nesting and flegling time is uneasy at best. Even in the Garden at the Edge Of Broceliande.
You may journey on, or journey back.
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