Winter mornings
in the half-light
I leave home for work
out on the lawn
a stirring of birds
so small
I can’t quite see
if they’re actually birds
maybe they’re
gray-cloaked fairies
performing secret rites
or the grass itself
sprouting feet for a night
and ethereal wings
for breaking away
at dawn of day
tiny tufts
of earth, unbound
with promise of
heavenward flight
For a couple of months I’ve tried to figure out what little birds are flitting in the tufts of grass each morning. Gray and ghostlike, they’re elusive as fairies. I finally got a good look at a few of them through the kitchen window. I am pretty sure they’re dark-eyed juncos, which my Merlin Bird ID app has picked up and identified by song. They are sparrows, “birds of the ground,” hopping around on lawns looking for seeds. They even nest in the ground.
To me, they give the illusion of the grass transforming into birds.
I researched them and learned that the junco is a symbol of impending winter weather, nicknamed “Snowbird”.
Merriam-Webster says the first known use of “dark-eyed junco” was in 1974—when I was a child. “Junco” itself seems to have originated from a word meaning “rush”… as in rushes, synonymous with grass.
It just so happens that grass is a personal symbol for my father. I’ve often written of sensing his presence in the scent of fresh cut grass; this is steeped in childhood memories of him mowing the lawn. He was meticulous about it. Daddy enjoyed CB radio when it became a fad born of fuel shortages in the 1970s. I can’t recall his handle, but I recall the one I made up for myself, having never heard it before:
Snowbird.
It seems to have come to me around the same time the name “dark-eyed junco” was first used...
out on the lawn
a stirring of birds
so small
I can’t quite see
if they’re actually birds
maybe they’re
gray-cloaked fairies
performing secret rites
—Maybe they are memory itself.
Dark-eyed Junco. Kurayba. CC BY-SA 2.0.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
lit bits and pieces 
Whoa! Mind blown by the many layers of this post, bookended by poetry. So many ethereal images conjured by your word play. Found poetry from your last stanzas of each poem-
“tiny tufts
of earth, unbound
with promise of
heavenward flight”
“maybe they’re
gray-cloaked fairies
performing secret rites
—Maybe they are memory itself”
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So glad these lines spoke to you, Cindy ❤
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Fran, you can always take a true slice of life moment and enrich it with detail, rich description, and wonder. Your idea that these birds could be fairies or memory itself is captivating and magical. I like the way you added the story about your dad and the CB radio. It’s funny….my dad had one, too, and his handle was the South Georgia Padre. These memories of the past and the winged birds of today make for a beautiful slice. Your deep love of birds and interest in them is ever present in your writing, whether birds themselves, wings, or movement – – or focus, as I saw earlier this week. I always look forward to reading what you write.
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I love your dad’s CB handle! I so wish I could remember Daddy’s. Some memories are as elusive as my little juncos.
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I love the layers within your writing and your descriptiveness. I can visualize those tiny Faries in the wet grass.
My CB handle was my pet name given to my by my grandfather. In December I had a water leak that flooded my basement & while cleaning I uncovered 2 boxed CB radios! Relics for certain.
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I bet you felt transported back in time, Patricia! Relics, indeed. Thanks so much for your words.
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Yes, thank you!
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Fascinating storytelling again! I especially love the ‘gray cloaked fairies’ image of those amazing little birds that look a bit like grass come to life.
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Thank you, Celia…and I owe you thanks also for reminding me of koalas, for they are at the heart of my post today!
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