There are three, hanging from the lower branches of a basswood tree right outside my window. These tiny houses, teetering back and forth, buffeted by a late February wind like pendulums on wire fulcrums, take turns moving to the music. First, the white one with a blue roof sways in time to the falling stars of snowflakes landing gently at his feet. Then he rests as the yellow one with green roof turns towards him to signify her entrance, taking up the rhythm the wind has set in motion. The slightly larger white one with green roof, on the other side of the tree, keeps a steady beat next to the shiny bumblebee with wire baton who seems to be conducting the orchestra from his podium further out on the branch. Meanwhile, the rocks below continue to hum a bass line. As the snow increases and the tempo picks up, a solitary cluster of what at first appears to be dead leaves clinging to a nearby branch but are really brown leotards, begins to dance something wildly contemporary. The birdhouses, in fermata, silently watch as the audience, hanging on every note, breathlessly awaits the musical denouement.
P.S. By some odd "coincidence," as I was looking up something else, the word fermata showed up. It's a musical term for holding a note for whatever duration the conductor decides, usually appearing towards the end of a piece. Another term for it is "Bird's Eye." I couldn't resist.
Paintings: "Fence Line," by Andrew Wyeth, and, "The Magpie," by Claude Monet