Junco hyemalis  

by Benjamin Toche

an excerpt from Junco hyemalis,

itself an excerpt from The Birder

The group of slate backed and white chested little birds with their black eyes occupied the floorboards of the man’s porch. There were six total and five hopped about on the porch, pecking at the seeds raked out of the bird feeders dangling above, while the sixth sat, puffed up yet watchful, in the lilac bush screening the porch from the man’s front yard. They ate silently, unlike the chickadees who came to the feeder, and they kept to themselves, as if each held a grand mystery known only to itself. They hopped and pecked, hopped and pecked. The man’s youngest boy watched them from the dining room window and called out to his brothers to come see. The two older boys sprawled on the man’s living room rug and busied themselves with screens. The man’s body sat on the sofa, beer in hand, and stared out at the mountain in the 
distance. Drapes of greenery shone in the sun like crystalline fluid. The man’s body automatically drank. Uly called again.