Hubby trimmed trees on Monday, and now we have a (taller than me) brush pile on the side of the house.
We see it as we pull into the driveway, and for the past two days the kids and I have stopped to watch the birds that have turned this brush pile into a playground.
(I know that the picture above only shows two birds, but that’s because the Scary Blogger Woman made them fly away. Those were the only two brave enough to venture back after I stood motionless for almost five minutes with camera poised and ready.)
The kids and I sit in the (evidently not scary at all) Suburban and imagine what the birds are saying to each other as they jump among the branches and play.
There’s a special joy that wells up in my chest imagining how much fun they’re having. I feel a little sad knowing that we’ll soon haul off the branches and their special playground will be gone.
It’s the same sentimental part of me that makes me not mind at all that my Dining Room has looked like this since Monday:
I really did try hard to be still so the 30+ birds would come back. Who knew birds were so flighty?
Wait . . . flighty.
Oh. Now I get it.