The garden is quiet, no chirps, no songs. Unusual morning. What’s going on?
I step outside, and what do I see? This feathered stranger staring at me.
Russet velvet breast across its proud chest, white wispy feathers where the sunlight rests.
Scaly silvery cape draped over its back, each feather layered, a shimmering stack.
A tiny hooked beak, sharp eyes that gleam, a hunter on watch in my garden of green.
He doesn’t chirp. He doesn’t sing. He perches and awaits what the day will bring.
Is this why there’s no song today? Did his arrival scare the music away? Did every small singer take flight when he came? Or is he now satiated and pleased with his game?
But as I watched him command the garden in absolute silence, I wasn’t just looking at a displaced creature—I was catching a glimpse of pure instinct, poise, and a quiet resilience that ...
I have a Cooper’s Hawk that visits my garden sometimes. Amazing creature.
Is this why there’s no song today? Did his arrival scare the music away? Did every small singer take flight when he came? Or is he now satiated and pleased with his game?
Beautifully captured! Nature’s silence can be just as powerful as its songs.
