This is one of those expectation-versus-reality stories.
One winter day, walking through a park, I stumbled upon an entire field of birdhouses: dozens of identical wooden boxes on tall poles, lined up in neat rows at the edge of the forest. I figured the activity would start any moment, so I settled into a nearby gazebo to wait.
The scene had everything going for it: a winter forest, neat little houses topped with perfect caps of snow, and, for good measure, pieces of suet hanging from the branches.
The location was excellent, the view picturesque, the architecture minimalist. The only thing missing was the birds.
So I waited. And waited. It was around minus twenty, a detail I chose to ignore while slowly freezing my ass off. But nothing ever happened.
I was just about ready to give up on the whole idea when something finally did. A titmouse. Just one. It landed on a branch, sat there for a couple of minutes, staring at the suet, then glanced at me with complete indifference, as if to say: sure, but it’s freezing out here, and no one’s about to put on a show for your photo. And with that, it disappeared back into the white void, leaving me slightly bewildered.
And that’s when it occurred to me that these weren’t really birdhouses at all, but something closer to an art installation, designed to make passersby stop, sit for a while, and briefly reconsider their expectations about life.
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