Heidi Watts

I was surprised by spring this year. The returning birds and the old faithfuls; the bulbs barely visible, growing straight up out of the dirt and bursting into little hyacinths, daffodils and tulips; the bare branch of the maple tree outside my bedroom window preening for summer with reddish whiskery buds which transition into tiny replicas of big maple leaves in a unbelievable shade of golden green, and now those big distinctively five fingered shade-makers we think of as maple leaves. I have been surprised by the deceptive but delightful burst of sunshine and warmth on a day in early April, promising the end of dreariness, though by nightfall it is weighted down and darkened by rain heavy clouds - good-bye sunshine and time in the garden - and surprised again a few days later when we are back to basking. Surprised by how the rain reeves up the brook galloping down the hillside, and how the rain can brighten the wet leaves when the clouds lift so that everything glistens newly-wash

I had complained to the doctor: I get so tired and when I go upstairs, I get out of breath and kind of   dizzy. “ Hmm”, he said, taking in my white hair, aged skin, and no doubt the easy way I sat down, upright in the chair next to his desk.” Hmm” he said again, not surprised but not concerned, and took my wrist to feel the pulse. For several minutes neither of us said anything as he stared fixedly at the clock. Then he released my hand and said, “Did anyone ever tell you you have an irregular heart beat?” “No. Taking my cue from him I am also not alarmed. “What does that mean?” “Well,” he said, it’s like this. You have four chambers in your heart, two on the bottomed and two on the top. I think, What kind of chambers: the judge’s chambers? My ladies’ chamber? The place where the chamber pot is kept? Images flick by like slides in the projector on the screen of my mind. “The blood comes into the bottom right chamber and is pumped into the left chamber.” Pumped

Can you believe it? This morning at the feeder I had two pair of rose-breasted grosbeaks, a pair of cardinals, a mess of goldfinches, a crowd of blue jays, (maybe twenty) a Baltimore oriole (I have never seen one at the feeder before) and an Indigo Bunting   (gorgeous; even less likely than the oriole.) There were also the regulars, of course, chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, titmice, and four varieties of sparrows. But who expects wild tropical colors on North American birds? At a feeder, for heaven’s sake! This spring I spent hours at the kitchen window with my binoculars and my Sibley, and from this dedication I have been rewarded by learning how to distinguish those confusing little sparrows, and by building a relationship with Mickey. Mickey is a large gray squirrel with too many brains. I bought all the state-of-the-art bird feeders guaranteed to be squirrel proof and each time a new one arrived Mickey managed to beat the system. Some times it took him only a day

Only a few days after I returned from India, I was greeted in the garden by seven ladies in shiny black bombazine, jackets rucked and ruffled, above a narrow skirt, brown, black and a yellowish tan in geometric patterns like the back of a painted turtle. These are lady turkeys. Some come in shyly, heads hovering over the ground as they pick, pick, pick at the ground, but others stalk by, tiny red heads on long snaky necks held high, striding arrogantly. Sometimes my ladies seem to be striding, but just as often they are moving delicately on tiptoes over stick legs, ridiculously tall stick like legs. How can those extended chopsticks hold that heavy frame? From the upstairs window I cannot see the legs, nor the head when Ms. turkey is in “checking the ground mode” and the resemblance to a turtle, all rounded spattered shell without legs or head is even more pronounced. Occasionally my ladies come with their escort: two tom turkeys and what a sight they are! Strutting, display