Goddess of the Window Sill

I played goddess this week. Or god-ish. If I ever harbored a desire to be in charge, I don’t anymore. It’s been rough. My wild songbirds were struck with avian conjunctivitis, particularly dangerous to goldfinches. The finches are staples—everywhere and barely noticeable—the filler of my spectacular line up.

A couple of finches hanging out in better times…

So when I saw one with puffy, sickly looking eyes, I took notice. The poor bird stayed for a long time, half blind and hungry. Google and Cornell’s ornithology institute, said to take the feeders down for at least a few weeks. I’d only seen the one so far, but many more were sure to follow, they agreed. Taking the trays down was the thing to do.

Any number of heartless deities and birders alike would logically dismantle what has become an embarrassingly large ecosystem without a thought. Watching the birds brings me sweet awe any number of times a day, a focus I’ve learned to chase down any rabbit hole, not just the metaphorical ones. 

The bird buffet has been in operation at this location for close to two years. How could I take their reliable food source, especially in a winter still baring its icy teeth? How would I assure them that it was better in the long run? I couldn’t even send them a link to this story, or the Kate Chronicles, which is how I’ve taken to explaining myself these days.

It sat heavy on me, though I understood. Unlike money, birdseed does actually grow on trees. 

The feeders in question are in the nest. The nest is my cozy, second floor, corner office with bird seed stations suction cupped to each window, along with suet high above for the woodpeckers and nuthatches where the squirrels or the bears can’t reach. In other words, I’ve gamed the angles and I aim to run a full service operation. For the birds, anyway. In return, my dogs and I spend awe-filled hours watching cardinals line up at the sparkling ends of white pine branches to sneak their turn at the sill.

Another sick goldfinch landed. I stared at the poor mess of feathers pecking at safflower seeds. It can be fatal if the eyes are crusted over, I’d read. I tried to snap a picture to compare and got way too close to the window. Every other bird would have flown away. This one didn’t see me.

I fell into birding, ironically, now that my greater nest is empty. Or empty-ish. I sighed thinking about how far I’d flown from my pigeon shit dreading Brooklyn days, and my Long Island seagull phobia filled ones to now, as the goddess of the grosbeak.

The diseased birds die from starvation or because, flying blind, they can’t see predators coming. I knew what had to be done, but this one was still eating perhaps its last meal. I didn’t have it in me to take it away. A purple finch dropped down into the tray and I tapped on the windowpane so it could escape, knowing it wasn’t fair to risk so many.

The bluebirds swooped in and forced it out, getting the job done, gorgeous and ever practical. Fates were sealed. If I wanted to save so many more, what choice did I have? 

Like the mother I am, I did what would benefit those relying on me and braced myself against the full throated pity that has brought me to my knees more than once. The right thing. Not the easy one. Two weeks. I took the trays down and threw away the seed.

Minutes later I was back at my desk, trying to concentrate. One by one birds returned, wings flapping, to the window. The last time I felt that gut punched, I was slumped outside my two-year-old’s closed door doing some barbaric thing called, sleep training. He screamed for what was maybe three minutes, but felt like hours. Each winged visitor flapped their outraged disbelief. Even I didn’t know wild animals were capable of such things. My son got over it eventually, I told myself. So would they.

I faced a blank screen and the desire to write, only one by one they fluttered at me. Some made eye contact. Even the ground feeding, dark eyed juncos made an appearance on the window sill once or twice. My concentration was scattered as carelessly as sunflower seed husks.

I wanted to put the feed back up. I have a lot of it, customized and put together by my friends at the feed store, untouched by the poor sick goldfinches.

The mourning doves were furious. They sat on the window sill and ranted in an angry titter I understood perfectly.  I wanted to tell them I felt their pain. By afternoon, the chattering amongst the flock felt like it was being piped in through a megaphone—real or imagined, it’s hard to say.

Shit, I thought, the flock has other food sources. They lived before I got here, and even I would move away one day. I tried to get the picture of the poor, starving finch from my mind. Nature does what that bitch wants to do. What goddess doesn’t understand that simple truth? The job involves occasional famine and often habitat loss.

A red bellied sapsucker caught my eye as it peaked angrily over the side of the roof. I contemplated the suet cage hanging above the seed trays. I didn’t remember seeing a finch feed from it. I went back to the research. It turns out that finches don’t go for the nutty, fatty, high energy feed so much. I thought it through. It was in a cage above the feed tray. The woodpeckers love it, as do my nuthatch friends, the starlings and the jays. A ray of hope suddenly! A consolation.

All this is to say, who would want to be a god, whether it’s of the universe, a higher power or an old lady in an office? I know what’s best and I’m going to do it. It’s like parenting without allowing your children any say—impossible to maintain. This goddess life is not for me. I have too much of a love/hate thing for authority.

For now, I’ll enjoy the birds I have left until the time comes to expand the flock again in a little less than two weeks. I enjoyed power over creatures who couldn’t possibly understand the logic of why I did what I did. The goddess life has its rewards, but comes with a lot of responsibility. 

May the one in charge of this feed platform called, Earth, remember to return the feeders once it's safe. Amen.