Thanksgiving is behind us, and the company's gone;
the patter of little feet and squeals of delight are only a happy memory.
Our Thanksgiving meal was a little different than the traditional feast, but not unlike what the first pilgrims ate;
we had venison, potatoes and rhubarb pie.
History may not record whether or not they had rhubarb pie at that first Thanksgiving,
but if they didn't, they should have. It's our favorite.
There's a belated Thanksgiving feast going on in the old dogwood tree outside our window.
A flicker came early, dressed in his black polkadots and bow tie,
the bright red heart on the back of his neck matching the berries he came to eat.
Cedar waxwings arrived in small groups, the tips of their tails freshly dipped in red and yellow wax.
This celebration doesn't happen every year.
Often, the squirrels strip the berries before the birds consider them ripe enough to eat.
But this year, there's a bumper crop of acorns,
and the squirrels are far too occupied with their favorite nuts to dine on dogwood berries.
When the biggest bird on the block, the pileated woodpecker, dropped by, the other birds scattered.
He didn't stay long, but picked up his carry out and flew away.
Just one more bite of those sweet morsels and the bluebird flew away, too.
I expect they'll all be back; there's plenty of berries left on the tree.
When opportunity knocks, you'd better open your beak.
