. . . a birdhouse hanging from the apple tree in my backyard. It was one of the few trees we managed to save when we built our home almost five years ago. It’s small, but the birds don’t seem to mind.
It hangs from the stub of a branch that we had to shear off so its leaves wouldn’t scrape against the office window. It is covered with snow. Not the flaky, blowable type of snow that falls in places where it stays colder longer, but the hard, crusty snow that we get here in Indiana. It gets that way because it melts for a bit during the day, but not enough to disappear, and then refreezes at night when the temps dip back below the freezing point. We have this kind of crappy snow all winter long. Makes sledding down hills in the woods near my home a one-shot event – get out there quick before it turns to sharp and digs into your skin no matter how many layers you pile on.
It’s also empty at the moment. The birds that normally hang out by my window are off scrambling elsewhere, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing not feeding them on a regular basis. That’s ok, though. They can sweat it if they want to.
Do birds worry? Fret about where their next meal is coming from?
The bible says they don’t.
Whether or not the story is true, I guess there’s something there to think about . . .