While sanding down a layer of Varathane, successfully engaged somewhere in the neighbourhood of 180 grit, I heard a dulcet serenade coming from the window well of the basement window. While enchanted by the notion of having an avian admirer that felt compelled to compose and deliver such a sweet dedication in appreciation of my diligent refilling of the feeder it seemed far more credible that this FOY backyard Song sparrow was just dealing with the threat of its reflection in the glass pane. I don't really recall ever having had that sort of reaction when I perceive my reflection in a mirror, never ever feeling the urge to sing, but instead to withdraw my companion sharpie and desecrate the image with a cavalier length of baroque moustache. The window well had a mesh cover in poor repair and the sparrow had no difficulty entering and leaving its cave through the gaps. Maybe it was just trying to escape the snow. Much of the time I noticed that it sits in a bush near the feeder, feathers fluffed sufficiently to make it look bloated, but aren't so many opera singers resplendent-of-girth. This sparrow might also be somewhat irked by all the juncos that have taken over the place, like gypsies.
