It frequently, ironically, occurs to me that I used to HATE it when my mom would drag me along with her to go birdwatching. Birdwatching! Ugg! Nothing was more lame and boring to my preteen self than watching birds, counting birds, identifying birds, and (worst of all!) TALKING about birds!

And now, a mere forty-something years later, I find myself sitting on Mom’s porch swing in Delhi, NY watching birds. Mostly chickadees disregarding the falling rain to chow down on birdseed my mom has generously distributed among several feeders. A cardinal, nuthatch, titmouse flit by from time to time (yes, I know them, whether I ever wanted to or not!). A chipmunk munches on fallen seeds. Unlike birds (and unlike Mom, who hates the cute little chipmunks for stealing seed from the intended, precious birds), I always liked chipmunks, so that hasn’t changed.

What has changed is the peace I find sitting here watching all of this, listening to the chirping and singing, watching the flitting back and forth from branch to feeder to branch.

Mom and I went in search of a meadowlark this morning. Although she eluded us, we saw a kestrel, two beautiful red-tailed hawks, mergansers, who returned to newly thawed ponds, and beautiful bluebirds, quintessential spring birds who make my mom think of my grandma and me think of my mom.

For all time, all birds make me think of my mom, which makes it nice that birds are everywhere because despite living the entire breadth of the country away from each other, the birds make her feel close to me.