by cheri sabraw
My sister and I are avowed bird and bunny watchers.
Instead of hashing over how miserable we are about the socialism creep (verb or noun depending on your perspective) or about Theresa May’s crippling act of personal wilfulness and abject defiance for the voters of the U.K., we employ a diversionary tactic–staring at the desert, clucking to thrashers and quail and throwing Shredded Wheat squares to lure them up on the patio.
First, a disclaimer: if any of the Gestapo that run this over-55 retirement community are reading my blog (instead of finding something to complain about), we do not feed doves or pigeons, bunnies or coyotes. So there!
I do, occasionally, feed the golfers by offering a beer to those whose golf balls venture too close for comfort, but only if they do not swear. My act of Hoppian charity is rewarded with big toothy smiles.
In studying the birds that frequent my patio, my sister and I are most moved by the Gila woodpeckers, who in turn, are moved by hummingbird feeders full of sugar-water.
Then the late afternoon breezes, made more melodic by the sound of palm fronds swishing and swaying, begin to subside.
The bunny trio emerges from under the desert shrubs to nibble on the soft grasses of the fairway.
The metal friends continue their social engagement oblivious to the world’s problems.
They do fear the coming heat of the summer when their metal is tested.