Snow Day . . . Not for the Birds

Kansas City got hit with a snowstorm last Friday and Saturday. Friday morning I had a meeting at the far end of the metropolitan area from where I live. I was driving other people, so skipping the meeting was not an option.

It rained all morning, though the snow held off until after I got home from the meeting. But it was coming down white and fast by the time I got to the grocery store. There I mingled with hordes of other people stocking up so they could wait out the storm (and watch the Chiefs in the play off game). I had little interest in watching the game, but I did want to have milk in my refrigerator.

The snow continued through the night. Saturday morning we awoke to a winter wonderland. A heavy, wet snow covered the ground and tiny flakes continued to filter from the sky. No cars—including the newspaper delivery person—had made it up our street by 9:00am. No plows had passed yet. Quiet white blanketed the neighborhood.

Magnolia tree in snow

It wasn’t the prettiest snow I’ve seen. I prefer it when snowstorms are followed by brilliant blue sky and sunshine that sparkles off the pristine white. (Though those days are typically frigid, as if to keep their beauty from seeming too unearthly.) Instead, Saturday was gray and close. The prediction was for more snow throughout the day, and, indeed, flurries drifted down off and on.

I sat at my computer on Saturday morning wondering what I should write for this blog post. I stared out my office window at my magnolia tree, which didn’t look very Southern or Tara-ish when covered in white.

Then I noticed the bird’s nest, sunken a little lower than it usually is by the weight of the snow on the magnolia’s branches.

Can you see the nest?

One day last week, I watched two pair of birds—cardinals and chickadees—fight over that nest. I don’t know which species built it, nor which used it last summer. The nest was hidden in leaves from April through November. All summer chickadees, cardinals, blue jays, and squirrels flitted about the branches.

But last week, it seemed the two avian couples had each decided they’d rather squat in an already built nest than construct a new one. (I’m in the middle of building a house myself, and I understood their preference for a ready-made home.)

I tried to take pictures of the dueling birds, but they wouldn’t sit still for me. By the time I got my cell phone’s camera open and was ready to climb on a chair to take photos out the unscreened upper portion of my office window, the battle was over. I’m not sure who won.

Close up of the nest in snow

On Saturday, however, there were no birds. No cardinals, which would have looked pretty against the snowy branches. No chickadees, which are usually brave enough to risk the weather.

I suppose every self-respecting bird of any species was holed up in a better shelter than the nest provided—it wasn’t a desirable home this weekend. A pile of about four inches of snow filled its space and covered its surface. The nearby branches had little open areas on which to perch.

And I thought as I saw that nest on Saturday, I’m glad I’m not a bird.

When have you been glad you’re not a bird? Or have you on occasion wished you could fly?