I’m standing on tiptoe at the kitchen counter. Steamy tendrils rise from my blue mug, the one with the yellow interior and yellow chicken on the side. I cup my hands around the warmth, sip hot Nantucket Blend. I’m listening to the news about a collapsed bridge in Washington state, and I sigh and lift a prayer.
The sun splashes lemon across green, washes the peafowl house/chicken house/storage shed, spills over yard and field, shines at the door of the bluebird house. I wonder if the babies’ eyes have slitted enough to see the light.
Yesterday I filled the feeder with dried and live mealworms and watched Mama and Papa busy themselves for the longest time flying back and forth. I’m worried. I put out food a couple times a day, and check the babies once a day. I’ll be gone for a couple days, and nobody else here is as enamoured as I am.
Will they be okay?
I take one last swig of coffee. I need to go out and feed now. But first I grab the binoculars and survey the view one more time. There’s Papa. And that’s not a mealworm dangling.
I think they’ll be okay.
P.S. As I was writing this at the kitchen table, I glanced out the window. And then looked again. I’m not so sure now about the future fate of my grandbaby blues. Sparrows have taken over the house on the side yard. And this (I’ve never seen one before) would like to have them for lunch. I have a love-hate relationship with this view.
Still heart thumping,
Joining Lisa Jo and the Five Minute Friday community
on the prompt VIEW