Bird's nest

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There is a bird’s nest in the dogwood tree just outside our courtyard door.

I first noticed it not long ago, because all of a sudden there was a big puddle of birdsplat on our walkway, in front of our door. I looked up, and –

There it was!

Stupid mama bird. She built her nest no more than seven or eight feet off the ground, in the branches of that silly tree. Did she think her kids would be safe there? Some scheming badger or cat or raccoon will surely see it and pull it down sooner or later.

Then I looked up the other morning and saw this:

I hope these children live to see adulthood.

I hope they don’t die of the heat.

I hope their mamma brings them something.

I hope they learn to fly.

(Postscript: a few days after I took the above photo, the kids weren’t there anymore. Either they’ve been eaten by a predator, or they’ve flown away.

(I hope it’s the latter.)

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Buzzards

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I walk to work most days – well, part of the way, anyway.  On the way, I cross the Point Street Bridge, which crosses the Providence River just as it flows out into Narragansett Bay.

 

 

A few weeks ago, I was walking across the bridge, observing the usual bird population: seagulls, ducks, cormorants.

 

 

Then, out of a bush in front of me, a huge bird rose. It flapped its wings lazily and flew away, its ass toward me, obviously unconcerned about me.

 

 

It was much bigger than a gull or a duck or a goose. Maybe a heron or a stork? They’re not uncommon here, except you don’t see them much in the winter.

 

 

But the mystery bird glanced back at me as it soared away, and its long beak was crooked.

 

 

Aha. A vulture, or a buzzard.

 

 

They also are not unknown here. There are communities that are plagued by them: they’re noisy and messy, and they eat garbage, and they crap garbage.

 

 

And in our neighborhood!

 

 

What is this, a Warner Brothers cartoon?

 

 

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Listen to the mockingbird

Sometimes, on weekend mornings in spring and summer, when the windows are open, I lie in bed and listen to the birds outside: repeated notes, strange sliding calls, Morse-code beeping, alien whoops. 

 

 

I can recognize a crow.  Bluejays have a distinctive hoarse call, and I know the rusty-screen-door screech of a cardinal.  I know the scream of a hawk; believe it or not, there are hawks here in Rhode Island too. 

 

 

And I know the mockingbird.

 

 

I didn't at first.  Then, one day, sitting in a folding chair in a local park, reading a book, I was absent-mindedly listening to a bird singing in a nearby tree.  It went on and on.  It was pretty, in a way, but it had no continuity.  It'd tweet a few times, and then warble, and then do sharp repeated notes, and then peep, and then coo.  It never let up.  It went on for twenty minutes, and never repeated itself once.

 

 

It was like reading a story with the pages scrambled. 

 

 

This is the mockingbird's survival strategy.  A lot of birds sing to mark territory: Get out of here! This is my turf!  The mockingbird memorizes every birdsong it hears, and plays them all back in an endless random loop, and keeps all the other birds away, some through challenge, some through confusion.

 

 

And then it has all the delicious bugs in the neighborhood to itself. 

 

 

Mockingbirds are good at their work.  I heard one imitate the caw of a crow once.  Citydwellers have reported hearing them do the beep-beep-beep of a vehicle backing up.

 

 

 

They are dismal-looking, dull-colored, nondescript.  They perch high up in the branches, or on the tops of telephone poles, or on traffic lights, above the action, looking down.  I’m sure it's to ensure maximum coverage.

 

 

They drive me mad. 

 

 

I really sympathize with the other birds, who must really hate them. 

 

 

In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Atticus tells Scout and her brother that it's a sin to kill a mockingbird, because it just sits in its tree and sings all day long.  And what's wrong with that?

 

 

Oh, Atticus.  I wish you were here right now. I could explain it all to you. 

 

 

And then I would eradicate all the mockingbirds.

 

 

Birds at the window

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The people in my family are maybe a little psychic.  Mom generally knew when I was sick, even when I was far away.  At the moment my father died, I felt an odd jolt, even though I was about 250 miles away.  Partner and I also share a psychic link; it mostly involves food, however.  I suggested pancakes for breakfast, and he gaped at me: “Oh my god!” he said.  “I was just thinking of that!” 

 

 

If only we could make money with this.

 

 

Here’s another odd thing: birds come to our house when people die.

 

 

A few days after Dad died in 1976, at the old Venersborg house, there was a bird at my window.  It was banging its head against my bedroom window like mad, trying to get my attention.  I mentioned it to Mom and she looked somber.  “I know,” she said.  “It’s been at every window in the house. It’s as if it’s trying to get in.”

 

 

Fast-forward to late November 1999, when Mom died, all the way over on the West Coast.  A cardinal was pecking at my apartment windows for almost a week after that happened.

 

 

I don’t know where this comes from, but I’ve heard and read other references to it.  Birds just seem to be attracted to houses in which there’s been a death, one way or another.  They’re not attracted to the deceased, mind you; they’re attracted to the bereaved.

 

 

Strange.

 

 

I remember a reference to this kind of thing on a TV show some years ago, but I don’t remember the show, so I can’t look it up.  I tried a Google search, and found things like this.  It’s not unknown; it’s butterflies, and animals in general.  This website makes it clear that the deceased is trying to communicate with the living through animals.

 

 

I want to believe this, but I think this is wishful thinking.  I have no trouble believing that birds might sense some kind of disturbance in the house, but I don’t think the dead are guiding them.

 

 

But if only.  It would be lovely to see some of my departed relatives and friends again. 

 

 

But I don’t think I ever will.

 

 

Ah. This whole death thing sucks.

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