Bullfinch on mountain ash

Winter this year lay early. For several days it was snowing. The janitors, caught off-guard by the snow, did not have time to pick up the fallen leaves. No, no, and you’ll see a carved maple leaf sticking out from under the snow. Still here and there leaves remained on the trees. It seemed that the trees set their palms on which the snow lay and did not melt. On the oak, the remaining leaves were tin. They knocked on each other, as if they were trying to keep warm. But the mountain ash for a long time has thrown off the leaves, and only bundles of bitterish orange-red berries did a tree elegant. It was impossible to take his eyes off him. Under the weight of snow, some berries could not rest on a tree and fell red on a snow blanket.

In the crowns of the mountain ash always there is a bird’s hubbub. Small gray singing birds with a red chest were struck. It’s bullfinches. When they took off, it seemed that someone’s invisible hand tossed a handful of mountain ash. I like to quietly approach the flaming ash mountain and listen to bird voices, and still admire the bullfinches. However, the birds disappeared somewhere. Either the rowan did not like them, or I frightened them, only I did not see bullfinches in this rowan.

At home I drew a bullfinch, pasted a picture on a cardboard box and hung it on a wire like a Christmas tree toy on a branch of mountain ash. I thought that maybe a cardboard bullfinch would attract his living brethren.

Once I came to a familiar mountain ash. My painted bullfinch swayed in the wind. The sparrows paid no attention to him. And suddenly on the next branch I saw a gray bird with a red breast. Bullfinch busily looked at the crown, where the same birds were bustling. He squinted at me, crouched and jumped from the branch. From the crown, the bullfinch fell and, flying low over my head, describing the semicircle, returned to the branch.

My bullfighter had friends.

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Bullfinch on mountain ash