Imagine yourself walking along a quiet wooded path on a breezy March day, surrounded by tall, bare, decaying cottonwood trees. You begin to hear a softly whispered sound repeating high above you in the branches of the crumbling trees. Brrrrrrrrrrr………brrrrrrrrrr………..brrrrrrrrrr. Recognizing the familiar intermittent tapping of a woodpecker, you scan the treetops for the sight of a flicker, drumming away with its long sharp beak. Listening carefully, you try to pinpoint the exact tree where she is working, but there is no bird in sight.
You creep very quietly to the other side of a tree, hoping that you have chosen the right one. Still no bird. Finally, very high up on the trunk, you spot a jagged hole from which the soft drumming emanates. You train your binoculars upward to be rewarded by the sight of a fat little head with two bright red oval cheeks and a very long beak peeking out from the dark hole. It watches cautiously from its lofty vantage point, then disappears, reentering its hideaway to peck some more.
You watch , engrossed, hoping for another glimpse of the fat round head, when you see a single strand of crinkled dried grass come floating out of the the hole and gently waft away on the breeze.
After a moment, a bit of white paper flits out of the hole, it too getting whisked away by the wind.
You notice, though, that the paper was not just floating, but had been forcefully ejected.
This is followed by a medium sized grey feather,
some small twigs,
more scraps of paper,
and a bit of string,
all being intentionally thrown out by the bird.
Bobbing up and down, her head disappears then reappears, each time carrying some odd bit of flotsam in her long beak that she purposefully releases to the wind.
Her bobbing movements gain momentum as larger and larger bits and pieces come flying out of the hole, faster and faster as she frantically tosses out more and more debris.
Finally a single huge clump of dried grass, much larger than the hole itself, is laboriously squeezed through the small opening.
Popping out forcefully, the untidy mass disintegrates
into straggly poofs
that trail off,
dancing away in the breeze.
“Ah!” you think.
“Her old mattress.”
“Must be spring cleaning!”