Promptly at the beginning of summer, early spring, they come and greet me. They are a devoted pair. I would sit in my study and hear this soft, friendly warbling. I would look up and outside, and there they would be: our housemates. The wife probably starts cleaning inside the nest, while her man looks for materials to restore their home to the glory of the previous summer. They are my friends. I do not think it is my imagination that they communicate with me. They tell me, on that first day, how grateful they are that we kept their home intact. Somewhere during the summer, they also come and perch on exactly the same place on the top of my window, this time with a kid, or even more than one. They just tell me that they had offspring, and then they leave me alone. At the end of the summer, when their vast tribe gathers on telephone lines, they also come and sit on my window, softly saying goodbye. There is nothing mournful about the sounds. They are sounds of pleasure, of companionship, thankfulness. Next summer they will grace me with their presence again. The blue of jewels, the soft orange and pastel beige, all downy and cuddly. What are they?
The photo is not a clue. I just want to reiterate my special connection with birds.
