the domestics' tranquility

Most of the feed is eaten by the squirrels, but we still call it a bird feeder. It sits on a stout pole under an aging maple tree, which threatens to obliterate it by randomly showering down rotten branches.

It does attract birds in addition to squirrels, and in our early chicken-years, it was a favorite hangout of the hens.  Every morning they would pour out of the keep en masse, round the garden shed & waddle up the front steps to get to the black sunflower seed spilled beneath it by the squirrels & jays.

Now that they are cut off from the feeder, the hens appear to remember the generosity of their wild kin.  I scatter their measure of scratch each morning & head down to the cul-de-sac for the newspaper.  By the time I return, band-tailed pigeons and blue jays have doubled the population on the ground.

The hens are always chasing each other away from the feed, but no heed is paid to this new crowd that only shows up for breakfast.  As I approach, the jays back off in an untrustworthy manner, but the skittish pigeons head for the tree tops where I can hear their heavy wingbeats as they move from branch to branch.  The hens don’t look up, pigeons, what pigeons?

Coo, coo, ca choo.