When I was in elementary school, there was a park nearby with an open shelter. Walking through the woods, over the worn paths, I remember hearing crunch of dirt, leaves, and sticks underfoot. Then, you slowed down and walked as quietly as possible into the shelter. The sound of dirt changed to the sound of wood. Passing a few wooden benches, I remember walking all the way to where the shelter acted more like a roofed deck.
Looking out, there was a gully, full of trees and undergrowth. Standing there, open handed with sunflower seeds in my palm, I practiced patience. Soon, a chickadee would fly and land nearby. Then, moving a little closer, the little feathered creature hopped hopped hopped until it was perched a breath away from my hand. Finally, the chickadee would land on my hand.
I remember my heart racing as the little bird would sit there, easting its sunflower seeds. With bright black eyes and intricate shades of grey, white, and black this tiny creature would perch on my hand, moving here and there, finger to finger and eat quite peaceably.
It still amazes me, how brazed that little beauty of a bird was, and yet chickadees are still that way. Such brave big hearts in a tiny little bird. They may not look big and strong, but they are brazen little beautiful birds.
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