Missing you, Mr. Blue

Mr. Bluebird didn’t show up this morning.
The wind and the rain probably have him hunkered down somewhere. Even the cardinals are  quiet.
I wrote about my daily companion recently.
He shows up mornings and evenings, and sometimes in the middle of the day.
He sits atop a tall pole that supports the remnants of a purple martin house that was battered by Hurricane Michael.
I watch him from the screened in porch of my cabin, which provides a view of the pond at the bottom of the hill.
Yes, like many of us, I tend to assign human traits to birds and animals.
I imagined his gaze toward the lake, much like mine during this time of isolation, was lost in thoughts about today and what happens tomorrow.
That wasn’t it at all. It has become clear what he’s doing. He’s hunting.
He swoops down from his post, landing as much as 15 yards away, and then returns with an insect held in his beak, which he proceeds to pound into submission by beating it against the remaining metal roof of the purple martin house.
That accomplished, he takes his prize to a nearby bluebird box that several days ago had three bright blue eggs in it.
Of course, I’m curious to take a peek at the new family, but I won’t so as not to disturb them.
It’s not long before he’s back atop his hunting post.
That’s the rhythm of life at Roaring Creek Farm.
It’s spring, and there’s work that must be done to fulfill the promise of the sweet songs of bluebirds to come.