He is complaining loudly–the second smallest bird with his proud straight tail feathers, pointing upward in righteous indignation. I know not what has him agitated like this. Maybe neighbour’s cat is on the prowl? The wee black one is an exceptional huntress, bringing down mice the size of her head.

The other birds were fed up with the kerfuffle and have long abandoned their favourite shelter. The starlings settled somewhere in the neighbourhood. The magpies chatter away two gardens over. Robin popped by quickly to announce he is not giving up his territory. Na-ha no way! The blue tits and goldfinches have huddled in for the night, silent sighs form breathy clouds in the cold air.

Although, they settled in the hedge, not the tree, who has given up his vibrant dress. The gold and amber cloth shed for winter’s rest. Barren branches still attract, provide shelter, food, and roost, but are not safe to harbour our winged friends during the dark November nights–when the moon and stars light areal pathways for a silent killer.

Her hoots reverberate within my body, joy rising before consciousness even processes the soundwaves. As much as she brings us joy, as much she bodes danger for our temperamental little friend, who still prattles on. Hush, hush and hurry my tiny agitator, it is time to shelter for the night.