⏱ ~3 min reading
On the first truly frosty morning, when the glass on the window took on a white pattern, Artem saw a tit on a maple branch. Small. Yellow-breasted. It sat, curled up like a ball of feathers, and stared intently out the window.
Artem also watched. The titmouse sat for a long time. It didn't fly. It didn't chirp.
— Dad, go take a look.
Dad came over with a cup of coffee. He exhaled onto the glass, wiped the circle with his finger.
"She's hungry," he said. "She's looking for somewhere to eat.".
— Where does it eat in winter?
"Who will find it, son? Larvae in the bark. Seeds. Winter is the hardest time for them.".
Artem reached for the bag of buckwheat, saying he should throw it on the windowsill. But his father stopped him.
"Not like that. She won't eat buckwheat - it's hard. Cookies aren't good - sweet and salty are harmful to birds. It has to be right.".
— How is that correct?
"Let's make her a feeder. Do you want one?"
Artem wanted it. Very much.
They went into the garage. It smelled of old paper, drying oil, and a little gasoline. Dad took an empty plastic juice bottle, scissors, and rope from the shelf.
They worked together. Dad cut a large window in the bottle. Artem himself — diligently, sticking out his tongue — wrapped the rope around the neck. He tied a knot. Dad adjusted it, because the knot turned out to be weak.
Then we went to the store. We bought a big bag of sunflower seeds. Not salted — raw, in the shell.
"The little tits love it the most," said Dad. "And the shell is like training for them.".
Artem carried the package like a treasure.
At home, they went out onto the balcony. Dad lifted Artem into his arms — he reached out and tied the feeder to the branch of an apple tree. The branch bent a little, but held. Artem poured out a handful of seeds.
The first day, no one arrived. Artem looked out the window every ten minutes.
The second day — less often. I learned letters with my mother. I played with a construction set.
And on the third morning, when he went to the window, still in his pajamas, there was a tit sitting in the feeder. And it was eating. It was holding the grain in its paw, tapping it with its beak. The shell was falling down.
Artem stared dumbly. He was afraid to breathe.
"Mom," he whispered. "She's here.".
Mom came up barefoot.
— Oh, what a beauty.
From that day on, the tits flew in every day. First one. Then two. Then four.
Artem gave them names. The bravest one he called Zhovtochka. The biggest one was Bagel, because her neck was thick. The little one was Dzyunechka. And the one who always flew in last was Cherhova.
Every morning, Artem went out onto the balcony in a jacket over his pajamas and sprinkled fresh seeds. The snow crunched under his slippers. The cold wind bit his cheeks. But Artem was hot.
One day in January, my mother went out onto the balcony and saw Artem standing motionless. Zhovtochka was sitting on an apple tree branch a step away from his hand. And she wasn't afraid.
"She knows me, mom," Artem whispered.
Mom just patted her son on the head.
The winter was long. A lot of snow fell. Artem froze every morning — but he poured seeds. The first package ran out — dad bought a second. Then a third.
When the snow began to melt in March, the tits were still flying in. And when the first leaves hatched on the apple tree in April, Artem saw Zhovtochka bringing a dry blade of grass in her beak.
— Mom, she's building a nest!
"It turns out she survived the winter," said her mother. "And met spring.".
Artem watched the tit fly across the yard—a small dot with a blade of grass. And something warmed in his chest. Stronger than the sun outside the window.
The bird feeder was left hanging. It was taken down for the summer — the birds will have enough food. And in the fall, Artem will hang it again.
Because that's what those who remember who is cold do.
💡 A handful of grain is also warm for someone who is cold.