It was an icy cold day with the sort of cold that wound its way under my skin and into my bones. Even before heading out, I felt a shiver…with the windchill, the temperature sat at -24 degrees. I had noticed the visitor to the feeder before taking Max for his afternoon walk to the pond. A Common Redpoll was diligently exploring one corner of the front yard feeder and even with the opening and closing of the door and the movement around the van, it remained….surprisingly, waiting for our return over an hour later. A wonderful sight, the tiny bird, one of the finch family, warmed up the day with its small, but powerful, presence.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —
And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —
I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me.