Hunt and (wood)peck(er)

Each morning, I hear a woodpecker tapping away on my neighbor's maple tree.

For weeks I tried to figure out which house had the bird, and which tree was its smorgasbord.

Yesterday afternoon I spied him. He was across the street, checked around once or twice, then found some food in the bark.

There is something comforting about the same bird finding sustenance each day in the same tree, like going to your favorite restaurant for breakfast, or like my dad's habit of ordering roasted chicken if osso bucco isn't on the menu.

There is something comforting in the fact that this bird can find enough to eat in a neighborhood surrounded by concrete and asphalt, that used to be farmland. The robins and mockingbirds and bluejays find similar meals in the worms and grubs in the garden soil I turned on Saturday afternoon.

There is something comforting in the sunrise, in the blooming flowers, in the repetitions we find each day, each season, each year.

Looking forward to the dawning of a new day.