Rarely, I dream about birds. They are usually very small, pretty birds, of a species my dream invents, who sit on my hands or fill my dream-composite garden.
Until visiting Vancouver no little bird (apart from my large pet bantam when I was small!) had ever perched on my real, not dream-hand, though a friend had told me about chickadees fluttering about him somewhere near Toronto (is it only Canadian chickadees that are so friendly?).
In Stanley Park, standing under a canopy of quiet redwoods, or near a lake on a path overgrown by salmon berries and listening with ears pricked for the high-pitched staccato twittering of these little birds, with a hand held out in hope, is one of the nicest things I have ever done. I know one should not feed wild birds but...I am weak. How they see one, or notice one standing there, in a random spot, stopped just because their calls have been heard high above, I don't know.
Near the lake, above and below.