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home after a trip to town to find a thin dusting of gray powder all over the furniture, somewhat reminiscent of the Mount St. Helens volcano. The cat stood motionless, pointing like a hunting hound toward the fireplace. It was summer, so there was no fire, only a-layer of cold ash. The cat was listening to a faint scratching somewhere up inside the chimney. As we stood there, a bird hopped down, squeezing through the half-closed damper, and fluttered behind the firescreen as though it were inside a cage. It was the fluttering, of course, that was churning up the ashes of the fireplace.
We opened the front door, and pulled away the fireplace screen. Earlier in the year, the starling had had an easier flight, but now it was high summer and there was a trelis shading the doorway with lush morning glory blooms all over. This bird, however, got out despite the obstacles. It flew straight as an arrow, right through a small gap in the leaves, on across the hay field into the shaded woods.
As it flew out of the fireplace across the living room, I could see the brown back, the red patch at the back of the head, the pale yellow underside of the wings, and the dark crescent bib on the chest. It was a flicker, of course.
Dr. Hawkins is an internationally acclaimed astronomer and author, whose . books include “Stonehenge Decoded” and “Beyond Stonehenge.” He lives, with his wife, Julia on a farm outside Woodville.
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