By Janine Soucie Kelley

I wake to birdsong — hearing the dawn chorus, the sounds as welcome as the sunrise. Leaving the warmth of my goose-down comforter, I hurry on a robe and fleece-lined slippers and walk down the dusky hall to the kitchen to put on the quick-boil kettle for tea. Then I grab a handful of unshelled peanuts from the counter to scatter on the ledge of the back deck. Bins lifted, I wait for the swoop of Steller’s Jays to snatch their prize.

They hide out in the majestic Ponderosa pines in my back yard. Cautious, they are waiting too — until I step back, instinct for survival delaying their aerial show, displaying in their flash and flair of wing such panache, such dare-devilry in landing, snatching and taking off, they are the envy of stunt pilots at county fairs.

Months ago, I lay in my queen-size bed, too big for one, pinned with grief over the loss of my husband, Big John. A car accident soon followed and, for the first time in my athletic life, I couldn’t hike, swim, cycle or ski. Perched and buttressed with pillows, I looked out my bedroom window onto our generous sundeck and saw birds. I didn’t know their names — except for the squawking jays my husband and I often admired on Sunday mornings spent over leisurely Southwest breakfasts of huevos rancheros. We dubbed one Elvis for his spectacular pompadour and strut.

An English teacher, I knew the birds of literature: Keats’s nightingale, Atticus’s mockingbird, Juliet’s lark, and Mother Goose’s ill-fated Cock Robin and Jenny Wren. But beyond the blue jays in my backyard and the robins of my childhood lawn in Indiana, my academic training hadn’t revealed the names of birds singing in the grass or nesting in the juniper bushes of my home in Flagstaff. So I downloaded Cornells’ free eBird app. And when Katie, my physical therapist, gave me the green light, I joined Friday bird walks hosted by Jay’s Bird Barn, using hiking sticks to support my slow but steadily improving balance. On these friendly outings, I met and connected with simpatico Nature lovers who gladly shared their impressive knowledge of birdcalls. There’s a joy in knowing.

Birding keeps us in the present moment. As I looked up and out beyond my loss, I began identifying birds by their shape, tail, beak and color, adding Junco, White-breasted Nuthatch, Goldfinch, Pine Siskin, and Cooper’s Hawk to my vocabulary. I hung four feeders from the beams of the long deck, and one near the aspens in my side yard to welcome more species. January 2020, I became a member of the National Audubon Society.

In this time of the coronavirus, when many of us are house or apartment bound, birding offers us a way to connect with Nature, to connect with beauty, to look beyond our losses, which, though heartrending, are temporary. Looking out our windows, we can find wings.