He keeps coming to my table.
He lands himself on the edge of a chair, leery of perching too close. He’s all feathered and fluffed and I know he’s just visited the feeder. I know he’s not here because he’s hungry. Just curious.
I’m curious about him. In fact, he could be a her but I’m not adept enough at this bird-watching to know. But he seems like a he, all jaunty and proper but a little bit edgy. I wonder where his home is. I wonder if he knows that I keep my windows dirty just for him and his posse – really, I do.
I want to put a plate of seeds out for him, right there on my patio table the family gifted me several birthdays ago. I want to offer a place to him. I want to give him an all-you-can-eat buffet, while others grovel over falling sunflower seeds and cajole for top spot on the feeder. I want to make a special place for him.
He’ll poop on my table, you know.
If I put that plate out he’ll extend his uninvited-self further into my area, my bubble, my very own outdoor-living space I share with my family. He’ll poop all over it.
Already, he’s pooping on my chairs.
The choices are 1) shoo him away from the table and the chairs and back to his area – the feeder. 2) Let him remain perched on the chairs, curious and bold. 3) Invite him right onto the surface where my people eat their meals, and let him poop all over.
He’ll bring friends and it will be a raucous eating-and-pooping-fest, all over my table.
Is it worth it?
It’s always a matter of deciding, of remembering again, what I love most and what’s most important.