Marie’s home is decorated with birds. Some of the feeders in her front yard are bouquets of yellow warblers and goldfinches. She fills these feeders with Nyjer seed, white millet, and safflower, attracting and bundling the yellow birds into a defined area for their one color and one song. One of the wood feeders was built by her father, some 30 years ago. He repurposed scrap wood from construction sites that he worked on before launching his own general contracting business, in the 90s. This one was built with wood scraps from the DeLoria’s barn over on Pennemite Road.
In the backyard is a half-dead cherry tree that only blossoms on its south side. The north facing portion of the tree is nothing more than soft, pulpy branches with no leaves. A small pink bird house dangles from one of its dead branches. A string of cardinals perch and glow on the branch like Christmas lights; each bird plugged into its own hunger. Marie delights in the pale red glow they produce and smiles at them. The part she plays in decorating her home is an important one. Because of her actions, she’s a mother, curator, and government for these godly creatures.
They depend on her, or they starve. It’s as simple as that.
In the mornings, she goes into the sunroom in the back of the house, drinks her coffee, and writes in her journals. On days she is feeling slow or uninspired, she listens to some Rachmaninoff until the black ink speaks loudly onto the journal page. After three pages of long hand, she puts on her boots, her work hat and rubber gloves, then marches out to the yard. Marie replenishes the feeders, then waits for them to arrive.
Filling her cup one more time, she sits on the patio between the half-dead tree and sunroom.
Five sips into her coffee, a male cardinal perches on the branch, followed by his mate. Then another appears and another.
Soon the tree is burning with red cardinals.
She takes one last sip of coffee, then opens a basket next to her wicker chair. There’s a slingshot sitting atop some old Audubon Society Manuals. One of them features a photo of her gardens, taken a few years ago.
She loads the slingshot, pulls it back, and aims.
Almost as soon as she let’s go, one of the cardinals drops from the branch. A puff of dirt rises from the impact.
She gathers the bird in her hands, elevates it to eye-level, examining it before taking it into the house.
In the kitchen, she plucks it bald, seasons it with salt and pepper, and tosses it into a pot of boiling water.
She adds carrots, celery, and sliced onions, then covers the pot with a glass lid that she holds down with all her might, ensuring it doesn’t try to fly away ever again, even as a ghost.