Birds sang outside the window. Rain fell last night. Cornbread turned to mush upon the ground. Still, the ancient dinosaurs pecked at it. Swooped down into wet grass and ate swiftly until all the yellow bread was gone. 

He watched while drinking coffee. His wife spoke of chores to do around the house; take out garbage, mow the yard, dishes to be washed. One word after the other fell on deaf ears.

Honey. I’m talking to you, she said. Listen to me. The least you could do is listen. You’re not going to stand there all day watching birds. Who does that anyway? she asked.

I hear you, he told her as he walked away; strolled down the hall, opened the closet door, and looked inside.

What are you doing? We have work to do, she told him; he continued looking through the closet.  I give up. I’m going into town for a few things. Do you want anything? his eyes were transfixed. She left in a huff.

Christmas lights. A plastic Santa. Artificial tree. The old man kept looking through the closet. Old sweaters. Rain slickers. High school letterman jacket. Step ladder. A bird feeder.

This is it, he said out loud. The feeder still had seeds in it. He laughed while grabbing it and the small ladder. The husband of thirty-two years also took a wire hanger and began forming it into a circle, a loop. There, he smiled, taking all of it out to the back deck. There.

The old man hung the feeder from the gutter, standing on the ladder with the tops of his toes, then waited for the magic to begin. And, sure enough, birds came, flying to the feeder. A sight to behold.

He spent the rest of his days watching birds. All kinds of birds visited. And that he thought was as good as it gets. Just spending days watching birds. Magnificent creatures.