Waxwings

I was grading during my planning period when my colleague from across the hall stuck her head in and told me to open my blinds and look at the tree just outside my window.  She said, "I know you'll want to see them.  They're like Christmas ornaments...."  The cedar waxwings were making their annual stopover in the cherry tree that marks the changing seasons in stately grace within touching distance from my classroom windows.

There were probably more than a hundred of them.  They were busily stripping the tiny berries from the tree, twittering in that squeaky, rusty hinge noise they have, hopping and gliding, and largely taking no notice of anyone, especially me behind my pane of glass.  I stood and watched them for a long time.  I love all birds, but their particular beauty caught me today, their feisty little crest, their charming black mask, the sulfur yellow dipped tip of their long graceful tails, in such sharp contrast to the tranquil colors of their bodies, and there, just at the tip of their wings, a tiny shocking splash of scarlet, almost like random drops from a trailing paintbrush. 

A couple of them seemed to be watching me watch them, tiny heads turning in bemused curiosity as I tried to get my iPhone to focus on them.  I had started to take the Nikon to school this morning as I need to take a photo or two of the National Honor Society for the yearbook, but since the weather was despicable, I decided not to take it out into all that nasty slush.  I was kicking myself for not obeying that impulse as I watched the tiny feathery clowns preen and pose in the water-draped branches of the tree.  Everywhere I looked, there was a picture. 

I will take my camera Monday even though I know they probably will already be gone on their way.  Who knows what else might appear that I will regret not being able to save and share?  At least I have the waxwings in my memory.  I can save them there if nowhere else.