A Thanksgiving Letter From Your Backyard Regular
Dear neighbor,
I see you every morning through the glass. Steam rises from your mug. The porch boards hold the night’s chill. Maple leaves lift and settle. I land on the rail, look over the yard, and take a breath that tastes like cedar and cool air. By the maple, I can see the smart bird feeder with camera you keep so steady and clean.
Thank you for the quiet. You may not think it matters, but it does. The way you ease the porch light at dusk. The way you keep the window stickers in place so the sky does not look like a tunnel I could fly into. The way you sweep the seed hulls and change the water before the sun gets high. Small things for you. A calm world for me.
I learn a yard the way you learn a familiar street. I know where the breeze breaks on the corner of the garage. I know which shrub keeps its shape after the first frost. I know the clean rim of the feeder and the shallow bowl that waits for a sip. I know the sound of your steps when you pause by the window and do not tap the glass. You stay where you are. I stay where I am. Trust grows in that short distance.
This season asks for care. Days feel shorter. The wind carries a sharper note. Insects are fewer, fruit skins are tougher, and the best places to land are the ones that let me leave in a heartbeat if I need to. I still love the edge of morning and the edge of evening. Those hours belong to wings. When I visit your yard then, I am looking for the simple things. Clear water. Fresh seed in a thin layer. Light that falls softly on branches. A path in and a path out.
I notice your kindness even when you do not speak. You tilt the feeder toward the sun. You brush off the roof after a long rain. You take a moment to look outside without your phone. On some days the kitchen smells like cinnamon and toasted nuts. On other days, it smells like apples and butter. I like those days. They mean you will linger with your cup and let the air settle, and I can stay a little longer on the rail.
If a pumpkin sits by the steps, I do not ask for much. If you hollow it and set a tiny tray for seed, I will stop by for a few minutes and then move along. If you take it away after a day or two, I will be grateful for the clean space you leave behind. I am not here for decorations. I am here for the small promise that a safe corner can make.
My favorite moment is always the quiet one. You notice me. I notice you. The yard is still. A squirrel whispers across the fence. A jay scolds far away. Sunlight catches the edge of a feather and turns it bright for a heartbeat. There is no hurry. The world is large and loud, but the space between your window and my perch feels just right. If you ever look back at the day, the bird feeder with camera and app already saved the small visits we shared.
As Thanksgiving approaches, I will keep doing what I do. I will check the spruce. I will circle once above the roofline. I will return to the rim of the feeder and the clear bowl in the shade. If you step to the window, breathe and be still. That is enough. If you wish to do more, keep the water fresh. Keep the seed tidy. Let the night be a little darker, so travelers in the sky can find their way. When the sun is kind, the roof drinks in the light and the bowl stays ready, the way a solar powered smart bird feeder should.
I will not bring a ribbon or a note. I will bring a brief visit and a soft call. I will bring a pause that feels like kindness. You have given me a place to rest. I would like to give you a moment to rest as well.
May your table be warm. May your people arrive safely. May your yard hold a little music, even when the air is cold. If you look up tomorrow and I am not there, wait one more day. I am on the next street, or above the maples by the corner. I know the way back.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Yours from the fence and the spruce tip,
A frequent visitor
