oh that rosy rump

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After the merriment of Christmas: the nog, the peppermint bark, the Scut Farkus Affair, the Grinch, the Peanuts gang singing Hark! the Herald Angels, the audacious sweaters, the smell of evergreen in the house, the flicker of candles, the eight maids a milking, the Dasher, the Dancer, the Donner and Blitzen (or is it Dunder and Blixem?), the dizzying blur that is the first three weeks of December, you then look for the little things to get you through to the New Year and into the cold, gray of January. 

For me? Mine came to my feeder yesterday: a purple finch. 

I do not get one every winter; I get those ubiquitous house finches, the interlopers, the usurpers, the boorish Hollywood horde knocking at my chamber door. But this one was indeed different. The color softer, more raspberry, the streaks down its flanks were pinkish and the rump—Oh that rosy rump. It really doesn't take that much to ignite a smile, warm the cockles.

Yes, that's enough to chase away the post-Christmas letdown. Although, I do believe I have nog left in the frig. Must savor it though, it's darn hard to find in June.

And, once again, I did not get a leg lamp. What's a fellow have to do?

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