The Birds Have Disappeared

When I moved into my home in a large field, a pair of birds coming every day was exciting. I put out a square, light-orange, plastic container with water on a metal can outside the kitchen’s bay window. Then, one day, they disappeared. I missed them. Next, I noticed birds that flew in loops to catch insects, gathered on the brick compound barb wire. They brought out my smile. A succession of birds came and left. During the in-between times, I consoled myself keeping water out.

I graduated to a stone bird bath on a stand, set it out front under a newly-planted neem tree—tall, but not too leafy—and waited. The tree and the bird population grew.

Yesterday the green cloths went up. The houses here, standing in temperatures as high as 115 degrees Fahrenheit, have them attached from roof to ground. The birds have disappeared, no longer visible at the bath or perched on the small, front porch’s iron bars. In recognition, I felt sadness in my chest.

In spiritual training I was told my life would be constant change. Naïve, at first, I eventually learned that meant I was to lean only on God. When there were rifts in my relationship, God and I would enjoy the different shapes and songs and colors of nearby birds.

So tonight, God and I scrubbed out the bird bath and filled it to the edge with water that shimmered in the front porch light. Tomorrow, I’ll listen to the sparrows and mynas, and their talk will be my morning’s pleasure until it’s again cooler weather and time to see one another from my kitchen window.

My realization is, “Sadness comes and stays or leaves according to how we treat it.