Spring arrived on a Tuesday, as it often does in our corner of Carolina, with the certainty of an HOA letter about mowing the lawn. The yellow jasmine had strong opinions about it. The pollen had even stronger ones.
I woke in fine fettle, if that’s the word. I distinctly remember thinking, The lark’s on the wing, the snail is something or other, and God’s in his heaven; all’s right with the world. It's not original with me; I heard it somewhere.
I entered the kitchen, drew back the curtains at the French doors, and discovered that a full diplomatic summit had convened without consulting me at all.
Princess Amy, who doubles as my internal foreign affairs advisor, sized up the situation immediately.
“You’ve created an international incident,” she said.
“All I did was put out bird food, like I always do,” I said.
“Potato, potato,” she replied. She always pronounces the words the same way, which defeats the point entirely, but I’ve learned not to mention it; she can rationalize faster than a quantum computer.
The Opening Remarks
Mimi the Mockingbird had claimed her usual spot on the corner fence post with the bearing of someone who has given it considerable thought and decided it offers the optimal angle for seeing and being seen.
She surveyed the peanuts. She surveyed the feeders. Then she surveyed me through the French window with an expression that suggested she considered my presence decorative at best.
“She’s chairing the meeting,” Amy observed.
“It’s only breakfast time in my backyard,” I said.
“Was your backyard,” said Amy.
The Cardinal couple arrived next, taking their places with the quiet confidence of having made a reservation. Mrs. Cardinal has excellent taste and impeccable timing. Mr. Cardinal looked as if he’d dressed for something considerably more formal than a Tuesday.
The Squirrel Contingent
Mutter arrived at the garden gate with the energy of a squirrel who’s heard there are peanuts and fully intends to do something about it.
Behind him came Twizzler and Ziggy, his nephews, his protégés, and by all available evidence his greatest ongoing source of personal embarrassment.
Twizzler spotted the peanuts and went very still in the way squirrels do when they are computing something. Ziggy, who computes nothing and acts only on impulse, was already halfway across the lawn before Mutter could decide on a plan.
Ziggy approached a peanut from the north. A blue jay approached the same peanut from the south. They met in the middle, regarded each other, and then both looked to Mimi, who was watching from the fence post with the expression of a federal judge observing a moot court exercise.
The blue jay blinked first. Ziggy snatched the nut and left with the dignified haste of someone who has won but doesn’t want to make a scene about it.
Mutter watched this and made the face he makes when the younger generation accidentally succeeds at something.
Chester's Intervention
That's when Chester appeared. Chester is a chipmunk, and if you’re picturing something small, striped, and fundamentally unthreatening, you’re underestimating him in exactly the way the rest of the backyard has underestimated him.
He watched the chaos near the peanut cache, and the air above the feeders thick with disputes: sparrows jostling, finches making their feelings known in the high registers.
Then Chester did something remarkable.
He climbed the pole of the squirrel‑proof feeder with a mix of precision and improbable calm. When he reached the seed tray, he didn’t eat. Instead, he began nudging seeds over the edge.
The seeds scattered onto the ground below, where the ground‑feeding doves waited with the patient serenity of those who have learned that good things come to those who do not participate in the main drama.
“He’s redistributing,” Amy said. “He’s one socialist who doesn’t just talk about sharing the wealth; he does it.”
Mutter watched all of this from the fence rail. His expression went through several phases—suspicion, irritation, computation, grudging acknowledgment—before settling somewhere in the vicinity of professional respect for an approach he’s attempted but has never managed to negotiate up the metal pole.
Twizzler, less philosophical, simply laughed. This caused him to lose his footing on the fence rail and disappear from view in the manner that has become something of a Twizzler signature. There was a thump. A pause. Then Ziggy’s head appeared at the top of the fence, looking down, then at us, then back down again.
“He’s fine,” Amy said. “His head is too dense to be hurt in a fall from the fence.”
The Order of the Doves
Through all of this activity, the doves of the Order of Brunswick moved through the fallen seeds with the unhurried grace of people who have achieved a level of inner perpetual peace.
I have never seen them lose their composure, something I find deeply inspiring and slightly suspicious.
Mr. Woodrow's Report
Mr. Woodrow, the Red‑bellied Woodpecker, had been working the oak tree at the far end of the yard through all of this, filing his own kind of report. He paused periodically to observe the proceedings with one bright eye and what I can only describe as editorial skepticism.
At one point, he paused his work entirely and turned to survey the scene. Then he issued three sharp knocks against the oak that sounded like a mic drop.
Amy translated: “He said he’s seen better‑organized chaos.’”
Filed Under: Spring
By mid‑morning, the peanuts were gone, the feeders were considerably lighter, and the backyard had returned to a version of itself that looked, from the French window, like peace.
Mimi had departed unobserved. Spring had made its point.
Ms. Wonder appeared in the doorway behind me, camera in hand, reviewing the morning’s shots with the quiet satisfaction of someone who got what she came for.
She tilted the camera toward me. Chester was looking directly at the lens with an expression that implied, “Of course, I knew you were there.”
“Chester,” Amy said approvingly, “has range.”
