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It’s just after sunrise on a cold and rainy Saturday in early November. It has rained for three days and the world seems saturated with water. The side yard of my home in Flint Hill is covered with maple leaves, some are pale yellow while others are the color of an egg yolk. A few bright red leaves of the red maple are scattered among the yellow, making a splendid pattern. I walked on gold when I went out to put seed on the feeder.
The loud and emphatic song of a Carolina Wren was thrown into the sodden air. “Scen-er-y, scen-er-y” the bird called; great volume for so small a bird. The song transformed the day from yellow ahd watery gray to all gold.
I came inside. The rufouscolored bird, under six inches long, sang again, then appeared on the platform feeder and picked through the seeds with his long, narrow, slightly decurved bill; a bill not equipped for cracking seeds. I assume he is gleaning bits of kernel dropped by cardinals and Purple Finches.
Wrens have an optimistic and business-like purpose to
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