This morning I noticed a downy woodpecker hanging from the side of our porch rail, unmoving. I kept an eye on it as I made a second cup of coffee, fed the dogs, and stirred some flour into Vern (our sourdough starter). It was still there, puffed up in the cold, when I rinsed sprouting beans and defrosted some tomatillos from last autumn’s garden. I needed to get to my desk. Editing deadlines do not stretch well. But I couldn’t stop watching this little beauty who may have been in trouble. Maybe he had suffered a blow to the head from hitting a window? Maybe been attacked by a cat? Maybe gotten into the poison some people in our rural community (very unwisely) leave out to control rodents in their barns?

Mark and I both ended up at the window, just watching. Mark keeps multiple feeders stocked with seed, suet, and raw peanuts. It’s a ridiculous cost, but then we don’t buy fast food or go on vacation, rarely even go to restaurants. This is the main line item in our entertainment spending.*

When I was a kid I loved The Tough Winter by Robert Lawson. In it the animals endure a harsh, nearly unsurvivable winter but the rabbits, field mice, deer, and others rely on each other until the “folks” come back home to resume leaving out winter offerings of hay, apples, nuts, grain, and more. As a nine-year-old, I cherished the inner candlelight feeling this generosity gave me. Behind my childhood home there was a small forest. There, well away from the sight of houses was my special place, a little rise of ground between two trees, where I liked to sit quietly. Sometimes I’d filch a bit of limp iceberg lettuce or a wizened apple from our family fridge to leave there. But when I checked the next day, there was never even a nibble taken from my offerings.

Now the whole area around our birdfeeders has become a communion table where–depending on the time of year–ducks, geese, groundhogs, raccoons, rabbits, skunks, and opossums gather on their own schedules: dawn to dusk and beyond, feeding on the dropped seed as well as whatever else we scatter for them. It’s an evening ritual here to briefly turn on a single backyard light to see what creatures are in attendance. In that light we’ve seen mother opossums with their babies clinging to them, mother skunks with a little line of distinctly marked kits wobbling behind, and baby raccoons tumbling around each other while their mother eats. 

On and off, for close to an hour, Mark and I kept stopping by the window to check on the little woodpecker. Finally he moved as if waking up. He looked around, then lifted into flight. It seems he’d only been napping! His presence gave us a wondrous reprieve, letting our concerns narrow to this one precious life. We didn’t dwell on our fears for this climate, this democracy, this world. We just watched and cared. Thank you, little downy woodpecker. You helped restore our spirits.  

*Yes, I understand there are reasons to avoid feeding wildlife.