Nonfiction by Liz deBeer
A blue jay landed in a planter by my window with something in its mouth. Not wanting to frighten it away, I froze, watching the indigo bird dancing around in a circle —tap, tap, tappity, tap —with what? A peanut?
Why the hell is a blue jay flying around with an unshelled peanut? Google knew: Apparently blue jays adore peanuts. Whole peanuts. In the shell, which they peck open, often gluttonously.
But this blue jay who landed in a planter by my window couldn’t crack the peanut shell. His head shook up and down, trying to puncture the peanut against the plastic planter’s edge: Tap, tap, tappity, tap again and again.
Finally, he turned to face me, peanut still intact. Looked me in the eye and spat out the nut before flying off.
I got up to inspect the planter by my window where the blue jay landed. Nestled among the roots of an almost dead pink petunia lay an unbroken cork-colored peanut hull.
Why the hell did the blue jay leave the nut, supposedly its favored treat? Was it merely a lazy blue jay who couldn’t penetrate the shell of a stubborn peanut?
Or was this a sign, this bird who landed in the planter by my window? A symbol of a guardian angel or my ancestors’ spirit with a message about longevity, fertility, or wealth?
Liz deBeer, an English teacher who resides in New Jersey, divides her time among many passions, including reading, beach walking, volunteering, and experimenting with different writing genres. Although Liz has published primarily in newspapers and teaching journals, she is working on writing YA novels and flash. Liz’s website is www.lizdebeerwriter.com.
