The Finch

The finch lands daintily on the feeder giving a few wary glances to the left and to the right, its rosy breast made more prominent by the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. My yard is a flurry of activity as dozens of birds scramble for one last meal before the day’s end. Pugnacious house sparrows clamber for seating at my tube feeder each evicting the other with scarcely a morsel consumed. My ever –present companions, the mourning doves stroll absent-mindedly beneath, pausing to peck casually at the seeds dislodged by the tumultuous sparrows. Throughout the seasons these doves remain denizens of my yard and can often be found perched picturesquely atop my shed or on the gable of my neighbor’s house. My daughter lovingly mimics their contented coo. On the fringes of the yard, alert and aloof, a female cardinal in her muted (but still regal) attire discerns her moment to dart in for a bite. At the first hint of trouble though she is gone in a flash of rouge, off to the safety of one of the bushes that grow along the fence line.

My friend the finch, though, is my favorite perhaps because in his nervous energy I can see an echo of my own. Or perhaps because despite his keen distrust of the din and clatter he still returns each night to the nyjer seeds I provide. I admire his resolve. Less gaudy than his golden cousins, the simple house finch seems satisfied and humble.

What does his innocent brain comprehend? Does he know that in a few short months the days will grow lean and every moment will be singularly focused on survival? Does he feel the air beginning to chill his bones? Does he watch in envy at the columns of geese embarking on their long migration south? Do his wings ache for the freedom of discovery?

No. The finch is content with the day, not living in fear of the unknown; the perilous future; not hording to provide for some unforeseen disaster. Little does he concern himself with the scandalous affairs of his neighbors: their pompous adornments; their hurried endeavors.

I marvel at the simplicity of the life outside my window for the life within is so often the opposite: complexity born from circumstance and, more disturbingly, complexity born from my own inner turmoil and sin; my own brokenness and fear. In truth, I envy my friend the finch, which, in his innocence, is summarily exempt from the sin-stained consequences of his actions. Of course the price of this innocence is his very soul. Yet I look out at the finch at the feeder and the trust he has in the ability of the feeder to remain full in perpetuity. So much dependence on the whims of an unseen hand. Still he finds the contentment in his day to sing for the joy of singing as the last rays of light disappear behind the trees. So sing, feathered teacher, I still have much to learn.