Is it snow?
Lighter than the fluffiest cluster of flakes,
drifting slowly down,
more like down.
The sky above our urban yard is dingy gray, forecasting snow,
a dusting as a front moves offshore,
sun to follow.
A blue jay, regular peanut client,
sits motionless against the trunk of an old spruce,
both of them silhouettes on the grim sky.
I wonder if the supply is low,
go out to check the feeder.
More drifting flakes, but dark.
Somebody’s sooty wood fire, I think,
but that one is—
is a feather.
I watch it land,
then stalk it on icy, hummocky snow,
a pitiful crust of snow for a Maine January.
It is a tiny jay feather.
Other bits of feather and down float about.
Snow sets in like a fine mist.
Its drift guides my eye to the line of trees north of the house.
From every vantage point, I look there for motion,
for a dark form tearing at feathers and flesh.
The jay,
the lucky one,
sits tight.
Two jays are regulars on the peanut feeder.
One, clumsy, lands on the garage roof,
drops down to the teetering platform under the eaves,
awkwardly grabs at a peanut,
then away in nervous haste,
sometimes empty-handed.
If its smash-and-grab knocks a nut to the ground,
Darwin, keen observer,
whines at the door to go get it.
The other jay’s method is a clean slice across the air, sudden pull-up,
dainty landing, quick decision, secure grab, go—
graceful, sure.
Which jay is motionless in the spruce?
Which one is making downy snow?
Searching the leafless trees,
I spy a hawk, medium size,
tip of striped tail neither quite rounded nor quite square;
so, as often happens, I can only say large sharpie
or small Cooper’s. It’s not eating,
but if the jay moves a feather, that could change.
Dark scene against brightening sky:
hawk in the leafless maple,
jay as still as held breath in the spruce,
and from the trees behind me,
feathers and down descending,
as the hidden mate dines.
Gale Rhodes
