It’s sunset. The window is open. The clouds are picking on the blue side of purple. The redbud tree in the yard between our neighbor’s house and ours is picking up the pink side of purple. It’s closer to her house. It’s on the side of the fence that marks the line between our yards.
On that line is a suburban chain-link fence. It has a gate. It’s only about four feet tall, good only for confining toddlers and small dogs, neither of which are anywhere close. The fence also has a birdhouse, hovering about a foot and a half above. I say hovering, but the fence and birdhouse are connected by a board. It was cut by Nancy’s great-great something and was attached to a barn as siding somewhere more than a century ago. The barn is gone. The board is here, holding up a small house with at least one occupant. A bluebird.
I say one, because I don’t know whether there are eggs inside. Nor do I know whether the male is staying outside.
The bluebirds don’t seem to be limited by the fence. For them it’s the back wall. They don’t seem to pay much attention to the sentimentally-rich old -growth lumber. They do seem to like redbuds, particularly the one on our side of the fence, the one where the male blubird sits and watches and scratches himself.
The other day, I noticed that the male bluebird reminds me of John Adams. White britches, reddish waistcoat, long blue jacket. He was standing on another birdhouse (the one that a woodpecker had claimed during the winter and refused to relinquish), looking like a patriot, fussing and then writing a new nation.
Why this reflection? Jesus said to stop worrying. He said to consider the birds. He’s right.