My favorite bird is the junco. Not the red tail hawk, the majestic eagle, the brilliantly colored cardinal, or even the cheerful little finch. Nope. My heart belongs to the junco. That delightful little harbinger of winter.
Every year, as the weather turns colder, they arrive. At first, they're sleek and trim, looking rather dignified in their little black tuxedos, with crisp white bellies. Within a week, they've transformed into round, feathered ping pong balls with feet. I don't know how they manage it, but they become almost impossibly adorable.
They're funny little creatures, too. They rarely bother with the feeders, preferring to forage for the seeds scattered on the ground below. And I swear, sometimes I see other birds deliberately knocking seed out of the feeders for them. I suspect there's some sort of avian conspiracy going on.
Don't let their sweet appearance fool you, though. Juncos are bullies. Tiny, round, tuxedo-wearing thugs. I've watched them chest-bump other birds right out of their way, defending a patch of spilled seed as though it were the family estate.
And they're talkers! Sometimes their voices are sweet and melodic, little musical conversations drifting through the cold air. Other times, they're chittering away, apparently having very strong opinions about something.
They play, too. I've watched them roll around in the snow on my deck railing, seemingly for no other reason than the sheer joy of it. They love the snow and there's something wonderful about watching a creature so small find delight in the very thing that sends the rest of us indoors.
But what I love most about juncos is what their arrival does to me.
Every autumn, when I spot that first familiar little bird beneath the feeders, I feel an unmistakable flutter of excitement in my heart. It's the feeling of seeing an old friend return after a long absence. Someone whose company you've missed without quite realizing how much.
Their arrival tells me that the wheel has turned again. That winter is making its way toward us, bringing its own beauty, its own rhythms, and its own small wonders.
And while that first junco is hopping around beneath the feeders, announcing the changing season in its own quiet way, there's a soundtrack playing in my head.
Not some delicate piece of classical music. Not a reverent hymn to the turning seasons.
Nope.
Thin Lizzy.
THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN!
And I couldn't be happier to see them. ❤️