Letter from a new republic
After we've gone to the birds
March, 2,275
Dearest,
I write from a place of reflection, where days have stretched into weeks and moments of stillness have allowed for contemplation. Though much has occurred since last we were together, it is the most subtle of ideas that I am now compelled to share with you—those learned not from grand gestures in distant lands, but from the simple, unremarkable life we keep here in this part of the world.
After a lengthy voyage and stormy end, we bid farewell to our three cats, each in their turn and much too soon. And so it is that we arrive on the uncharted shores of a petless existence. Stripped of their comfort, we stand humbled by their absence, yet take heart in the prospect of fresh alliances.
“Come, friends! Come!” we cry. “You are safe within these borders. No more tossing by carnivorous beasts. No longer shall you be tormented by their savage claws. Come! All are welcome!”
But let us be clear—there shall be no room for squirrels in our land of peace. Squirrels are not wanted here
To mark the new era, we erect a noble contraption of bright colors and great promise, a feeder filled with ample provision. But our hopes are dashed when a creature of four legs, a familiar mammal possessed of a luxurious tail, empties the offerings in their entirety. Our dreams now seem but a fancy. The apparatus is removed with haste and relegated to the confines of the shed while we devise a plan to exclude this uninvited guest.
Now, my husband—blessed with an ingenuity surpassing that of many a tinkerer—keeps the discarded scraps of the world’s wretched refuse. Within these cast-offs he finds purpose anew. The bottom of an old Weber grill, it transpires, serves as an excellent barrier against the intrusions of pesky varmints. A few holes, some fittings, and lo! The feeder is set upon its post once more, the anticipation of birdkind’s return restoring our optimism.
“Come, friends! Come!” we shout once again. “You are safe here! The tempest is passed, no more danger from the grimalkins who would see you devoured. Come! All are welcome! But let us be clear—there shall be no room for squirrels in our land of peace. Squirrels are not wanted here.”
Days pass with no birds.
We speculate, in our folly, that perhaps the gleaming surface of the grill deters our feathered friends. And so, we dismantle the device once more, grinding away the sheen, such goodwill is ours.
“See now,” we call, “Sky-dwellers, behold! No more sun-spangled dome to impede your approach. Know you, now, the warmth of our welcome.”
Days become weeks, and still, nothing.
“Zip. Zilch. Nada!" we lament. “How long must we wait? O you of birdish brains, you make a mockery of our generosity!”
Our pleas are not in vain. At last, a lone creature appears—one solitary Carolina Wren, a neighbor, a brother, a Lilliputian hero. We stand in awe of this brave soul who has long serenaded us with his sweet song.
“Eat well, dear one!” we exalt in triumph. “Huzzah!”
…the land is once again overrun with relentless consumption.
In time, the feeder becomes the talk of colonies far and wide. Bright, bold Cardinals, arrive, and Goldfinches like gleaming buttons. Erelong, Chickadees and Downy Woodpeckers follow, with Nuthatches and House Finches soon after. Sparrows and Mockingbirds make merry, while below them the Mourning Doves glean from the scattered bounty. Reliable Robins and trusty Juncos add their presence to the peaceable kingdom. Our toil has borne fruit! The world seems right once more.
But rightness is a fragile thing. Noisily and unbidden, the Starlings appear, like gossipers at a village scandal. Red-winged Blackbirds and Grackles pour in, swooping and chattering, their messes littering our virgin countryside. The familiar terror of gluttony returns. The feeder empties in an instant, and the land is once again overrun with relentless consumption.
“Come, comrades, come!” we shout to our chosen compatriots. “The need is greater now than ever! Flock together! You must beak up for what is rightfully yours!
We wave our arms at the interlopers, raising our voices in protest. We seek the Oracle of the Internet, searching for answers among the stories of others. And in those venerated pages, we uncover tales of clever contrivances, of barriers high and wide, of secrets designed to keep the undesirables at bay.
We find no answers, yet on the other side of our pilgrimage a vista, once hidden, is revealed to us. We behold that harmony, like birds, is not a thing we command, but a living, breathing entity in which we may partake. For a time, we turned our gaze from the reign of terror wrought by our feline kin, and in our complacency, we convinced ourselves we had done our utmost. It was only later, amid the company of feathered multitudes, that the absence of equilibrium became clear. And no sooner had we glimpsed it than it slipped from our grasp once more!
Balance, it seems, does not arise of its own accord, as though by some natural order. It must be tended, like a beloved—cherished and defended. For without our attention, it deteriorates like Papa’s old barn. Peace never stops moving, despite obstacles, water flowing over creek stones, carving its path in persistence, like birds in murmuration, writing promises in the sky.
In closing, I trust this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits, as such things are most dear to me. May your days be free of ailment, and your heart light. I think of you often and hope that the quiet comforts of your days bring you joy. Do write soon, for I long to hear how you fare.
With all affection and fondness,
~Elizabeth
It’s another day in the life of us, and we are all processing a lot. I hope you were able to take a bit of a doom-break with my imaginative approach to this week’s hot messes. It is an allegory (you knew that!) based on the true story of our recent backyard bird adventures. The squirrel, the grill, and all the feathered masses mentioned are presented with as much chronological and biological accuracy as possible. No creatures were harmed in the making of this tale. Please feel free to save me from myself with some words of solidarity. Or just pat me on the head and send me on my way! But not without hitting that LIKE button first! Blimey!
A warm welcome to new subscribers, and a note of sincere, bubbling-over gratitude to Michael and Christy for supporting me with paid subscriptions. If my writing and what we are building together here also brings value to you, I hope you’ll consider that as well. Paid subscription options can be accessed here, or you can “buy me a coffee” (a one-time donation). Both are optional, because I want to continue creating avenues for connection that aren’t tied to our wallets. But for those who have the means, it would mean the world to me.
I am, as always, glad you are here with me right now, today, from wherever you are, believing in the possibility of a brighter world.
*Cover photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash
" like birds in murmuration, writing promises in the sky." My word, Elizabeth! Your words are poetry. Each bird deserves its special identity, so I am especially happy to see their names Capitalized. Thanks also for your gentle allegories of human-"what do I do now with the world?"-ism. (Sorry: I'll chirp out a more elegant phrase than that later!)
Stunning photos. Thanks for sharing your thoughts. And sorry to hear about the kitties.