Fluffy Tails and Tits.

So Mothermouse has stocked the bird table up with Christmas Spirit Nuts. A pair of bluetits is waiting their turn as a busy squirrel is stuffing as many nuts as he can in pockets and pouches. Actually he’s also pushing nuts off the side of the table to his mate below who is bagging them up so a third can rush off and burry them around the garden like an advent calendar. Such is the power of fluffy tails that we go ‘ahh.’ But now I’m suspecting the third is an incomer as the bagger has just chased him off. Which poses the question, has the news of abundant Christmas nuts travelled too far a-field? Mothermouse suggests it may be a visiting Christmas relative. Well if he is he’s already outstayed his welcome and it’s barely December. The tits wait patiently. There seems a rich web of morality in this little scene worthy of Dickens but I can’t fathom it. We go to Sainsburys for a Christmas tree. There people with a firm hand on their nuts, pardon the unfortunate simile, buy their Christmas indulgencies and scurry with bags to the car park while unseen in bushes tits, oops another one, wait for charitable droppings or scamper off with someone else’s fresh found bag while they’re not looking. This is reminding me of a lovely little book I’ve just read about old American Indian ways, how nature reflects us in sustenance and conflict. However much I can’t really connect, not having a corpuscle of American Indian in me, I share the same certain sadness of losing a relevance and reverence for nature’s lore; that we are still just scurriers of nut and timid tits, rooting boars and thoughtless chickens however our minds dress up supremacy. How they all have their turn and give leeway and proceed in some supremely gracious efficiency that we have forgot. In surplus they reproduce, in debt they die cold with a peaceful forgotten hunger. There is little complication. So the Indians are sad their ancient ways are dying out, romantically forgetting they used to loathe and kill each other before they had a common enemy, and in that reflective sadness is their demise. They have become old and nature knows what has to be done with the old. It knows only new growth on the burial. But new man, the reaper and sufferer? We have much to remember of what nature already knows. For example, she has never found a need to create politicians.