Yesterday a bullfinch came into the garden, I have seen one just once before in a winter where it snowed and I found a male travelling in shorts bursts of flight between the pockmarked birch trees down at the copse . In fact that is a lie, I have seen them more than that but its usually a flash of white rump leaving the hedgerow as I drive past in the car, somehow sightings of any animal from a car do not seem to have the same significance to me.
The garden is heavy with bird life right now which is comforting considering when we moved here ten years ago I saw nothing but the occasional pair of wings flying past. You would think then it would be hard for me to notice her but it wasn’t, it was her shape that felt different. A blocky, stout little figure compared to the house sparrows that sleek their heads back at every sound and the blackbird who at this time of year spends most of his days scouring the garden floor like some clockwork toy picking through the rotting windfalls.
I did not think she would return or at least I would not witness it if she did but this afternoon as I sat to paint Nigel said ‘Your bullfinch is back’ and so I have been watching her for some time today. I am calling this bullfinch ‘her’ because she is. Bullfinches are easily distinguishable between sexes with the usual rule applying that the females are, as most websites word it, duller or drabber in appearance. I of course do not agree with this wording, I prefer to think of them as less obvious, more delicate, the hidden meaning behind the poetry. The female bullfinch like her male counterpart has a cap of black armour it fades not a bit into the surrounding feathers. The shape of it just sweeps below the eye so that it is only the light reflecting on her beaded lens that invites us to where she is looking. In flight the most noticeable part is her white rump but at the moment this is just a line above her straight black tail that seems to have a hint of deep blue as she turns in the winter light. Beneath her armoured head a subtle wash of grey the colour of heavy rain clouds runs down her back towards her wings which are barred with black and perhaps the best part of all, the dusted rose of her rounded breast, a vintage floral hue.
The whole time I am watching her she is perched within the lemon balm plant at the bottom of the garden. Using her beak as a delicate tool she picks each tiny citrus fuele
d seed, removes the chaff and swallows the insides. The precision she uses to carry out this task is enchanting and I find myself getting lost in the motion of it. The head tilt as she reaches into the plant, the quick motion of husking. All about her the other birds chitter and squabble especially the starlings who shout wildly at one another. Her work is quiet though, sat hidden beneath the old plant stems she unhurriedly picks and husks, picks and husks.
When Nigel pointed her out telling me ‘Your bullfinch is back’ I would normally feel a little ill at ease with that statement having the firm belief that nothing in nature is owned nor certainly is it mine. Today though I think I’ll let it go, she may not be mine but this moment was and I’m so glad I looked out of the window.
