A View From My Window

By Leslie Selbst

It is snowing heavily, and the flurry at the bird feeder gives credence to the fruitless search for food. The birds are hungry, and the fluttering and chirping grow louder as each struggles to maintain ownership of the seed pile. 

Their techniques vary, for size is not a predictor of control as the small sparrows’ speed and numbers worry the larger Jay, finally causing its departure. However, their success is temporary, for they lack confidence, quickly snatching a sunflower seed and flying off. 

There is a scattering of feathers as a hawk explodes upon the scene. Sitting atop the bird feeder, he remains unchallenged but cannot eat the seeds. His prey, having escaped, he too must move on. The feeder traffic quickly resumes, for Mother Nature practices tough love this day. 

With each passing hour, new layers of white icing cover the landscape. Like virgin brides awaiting their grooms, the evergreens sparkle refreshed. Their dark green branches clothed in celibate white, a counterpoint to the oaks and maples, drab and naked in their winter sleep. 

A young squirrel chatters loudly, warning off others, as he anxiously digs in the flowerpot, searching for the acorn he buried last fall, its scent lingering in the autumn debris. He searches frantically—but in vain—as the ants had drilled through the shell shortly after he’d buried it, robbing him of his meal. 

Cold and disappointed, he flicks his tail in anger, loudly voicing his disappointment, but he receives little sympathy, for hunger is the universal voice they all hear. This is the season of trials. 

Finally, he quiets. Fluffing himself to conserve heat, he seeks solace blanketed in his tail. There he remains, motionless, frozen for a full minute before a new thought strikes him, and he scampers off with purpose, perhaps recalling another buried treasure.

Many of my neighbors match wits with my furry friend, preferring, instead, to lavish gifts upon his feathered competitors. Clever though their deterrents, they are no match to the cunning rodent, whose persistence yields a well-deserved meal. I, however, run an equal-opportunity kitchen.

The bird feeder sees many visitors this day, as witnessed by their tracks. I see a fox and raccoon have made foraging attempts but were probably frightened off by first light. I will leave some dried corn for them this evening. I hope the fox was the brindle kit I discovered last fall. She was a beautiful tri-color creature balancing on two legs as she deftly unworked the hook of the birdseed cover. 

Brindle is a sex-linked trait in cats found only in females, and although its outcome in foxes eludes me, her pear-shaped face and delicate features have convinced me of her femininity. 

Inside, my den is warm and comfortable, bathed in a crackling fire. The log burns easily, having dried two years in the woodshed. It’s one of many salvaged from the old oak that stood guard over the south pasture. It saw more than three centuries of summer storms before it was finally taken, unable to resist the howl of the wind that roared up the coast. The sun, having powered its growth, also gave birth to the wind that toppled it. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh.   

Even in death, the old oak maintained its dignity. Gnarled and twisted by the elements, its scars bore testimony to its many battles. Already massive by its sixtieth summer, it was bypassed by the farmer as he cleared and tilled the soil; its vast root system too formidable for his team of horses. 

Its many branches required a summer’s labor to cut and split; now dry, they stand ready to give back the energy they’ve collected.

The fire is as merciless as it is unrelenting. Its multicolored fingers probe the cracks and crevices, causing the wood to hiss and steam, the last year of its life succumbing to the fire’s fury as history reverses itself. A flash of light and heat and a decade explodes up the chimney. 

Americans strolled across the moon. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were vaporized, followed quickly by the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The past is laid bare, but the oak has no memory of this, for she exists now only to release the sunlight that warms and brightens a snowy day. Still, much has yet to be remembered as the inferno digs deeper. 

New roots tapped deep water as the dust bowl withered the land. The flames danced upon the log as shots rang out and Americans slaughtered their brothers. Coats of blue and gray colored the mud blood-red as the earth took back what was hers.  

But our oak was indifferent, for she was occupied, having released one hundred thousand acorns that year—her babies—the human sacrifice a nurturing bed for her seeds.

Still, the fire rages, obliterating all as it seeks the heartwood. I take another sip of tea as more history is turned to ash. The hawk has returned but again leaves disappointed, for the community of the bird feeder is now aware of its presence. Outside, the snow has turned the woodlands to gingerbread. Inside, my history lesson continues.

Our oak is hardly noticed by the Pony Express rider as he thundered past, desperate to outrun the advancing brushfire. Digging deeper, the flames reveal the great wagon trains racing toward California gold. Another summer’s growth is turned to ash as Washington defeated the British.

Our log’s epitaph is now mostly told, and it twists in agony as the fire snarls a warning, biting deeper as more history passes up the chimney. An arrowhead reveals itself. Buried deep within its trunk by a young Indian hunting his first turkey. He had no thought of white men, for it would be another ten springs before their first meeting. The adolescent Brave lamented his lost dinner while our oak worried about the coming rut as the deer would rub their velvet against her trunk. 

Our log softly sighs as the heat now approaches the heartwood. Consuming the dried resin, the fire roars hotter and brighter, and I reposition her remains, for the room has become too hot. Our oak, almost consumed, releases the last of her reserves, those of the first few summers’ sunlight. . . 

And now she is gone, a fading memory. Her expiring breath taken upon the wind

to return her ashes to the earth. The storm, too, is gone. Perhaps tiring of its game, it has moved on to cause beautiful mischief further east. The emerging sunset paints great swabs of color across the slate sky, causing ice-laden branches to glow as if consumed by frozen fire.  Yet this time of want is temporary, and when the earth’s tilt again favors a new growing season, I will dismantle the bird feeder and venture to the south pasture to check on the progress of the three oak saplings that now occupy their mother’s site. For now, however, winter’s grip tightens on my tiny island of comfort, and the glow of dying embers no longer keeps the cold at bay. I must feed them another log.

Leslie Selbst has co-authored a memoir entitled, Surviving The Storm (Kroshka Publications 1997). Under his own name, he has also published the short stories “Babushkas” (Eckleburg Review 2016) and “The Chosen People” (The Oracle Fine Arts Review 2016), The Corner Bar (2024), The RavensPerch Literary Magazine. 

He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina with his wife Janet and his cat, Maya. 

Mr. Selbst is a member of the North Carolina Writer’s Network.