MORNING CHORES

Glancing out the window, the old woman knew today she must feed the birds, all six of the feeders were empty, though it was damp and gloomy outdoors. She made her way to the closet, found her old gardening coat, and decided to keep her slippers on for the task, they were so warm. Grabbing the handrail she remarked to herself yet again that it needed tightening; how thankful she was for the covered patio, no ice or slippery leaves to fear.
She hauled the bucket of seed over to the feeders, fumbled with the lid, and feelt yesterday's leaf raking declare itself all up and down her spine as she bent over to scoop the seed. She'd fashioned a clever funnel from a plastic pop bottle, and a small flower pot served as a scoop.
She felt thirty pairs of eyes watching her, but they were invisable to her dim sight. She could hear flock of sparrows. They nested in that bush with all the thorns she could never find the name of. Her shoulder complained as she lifted the feeders off their hooks, but she ignored it, removed the lids, and dumped out the husks.
She straighted her back slowly, then arched slightly, enough to see that dead branch that had been ready to fall all summer still suspended in the cottonwood tree. She'd have to get her grandson to haul it down, it reminded her of death, and she didn't need reminders.
Death, she mused, her file of possible final scenes again flying through her mind as she scanned the muted colors of mid fall. She shook her head, annoyed at the habit she'd developed. No telling when, she scolded herself, no telling how, or with whom, or where. She slammed the garage door. Her hand on the banister, she turned once more to gaze at the dormant yard when a sudden sea of pastel light appeared carrying hundreds of luminescent sparrows. A flock of mountain bluebirds swooped through, singing, and then she heard her favorites, the meadowlarks. They zig zagged across her vision, like yellow leaves in a river of light. She wondered, how can they sing and fly at the same time?
At the question, the colors dimmed and the birdsong faded into memory once again. She pressed a bony hand to her wildly racing heart,leaned against the cold house to catch her breath, one foot still poised on the stair. She felt reassured to see her familiar rose bushes, hips hanging limply from their branches. She glanced at the birdfeeders. Dozens of sparrows vied for the perches, and more hopped on the ground, pecking through the wet leaves.
A shiver trembled her body bringing a smile and then a chuckle. Crazy old coot, she said to herself, now you're having visions! She started up the stairs. But what a vision! If the birds fly me across, I could handle that. She shoved the door open into the over warm house. Crossing over with meadowlarks, I'm okay with that!