Feed the Birds

 

Over the course of several months I kept setting out food and water for the crows.  They enjoyed it, and it was fun for me as well, seeing them enjoy the snacks and fresh water every day.

When I became sick and could no longer get outside to feed them, I felt bad.  I was sure they wouldn’t understand why I had stopped.  However, much to my surprise, they began to leave small gifts on the windowsill.

Shiny bits of foil, a smooth pebble, a bent paperclip. One morning, there was a tiny sprig of pine tucked into the corner of the sill, as if they’d brought a breath of the forest to my bedside. It was subtle, almost cryptic—but unmistakably intentional.

It felt like their way of saying: We noticed. We remember, and maybe even we miss you.

There’s something hauntingly beautiful about this kind of interspecies recognition. I gave them care, and they returned it in the only language they knew—through tokens, gestures, presence.  Suddenly I had become a part of their story.  We were all just here sharing the planet and this time together.