Silly Birds
In his quest to create a peaceful oasis, my husband has hung 3 bird feeders in our small yard. I believe he may have inadvertently created what can only be described as “Nature’s Thunderdome.” Every bird and squirrel within a 15 mile radius has converged upon our tiny, suburban backyard in search of the mythical food sources that seem to replenish themselves magically. The cardinals wage war amongst themselves along the fence posts; the women fight as fiercely as the men. They are warriors.
The squirrels dangle precariously from the ledges of feeders that were never meant to support their weight. For their acrobatic bravery, they pay a tax. Half of their winnings are dumped to the ground where the insignificant masses of chickadees and finches wait to gather the chaff. These wee ones are a peaceful tribe, happily pecking the ground in and around each other. Until the the oafish doves arrive.
When the doves descend, these smaller birds ascend in one massive fluttering herd into the tree branches. The doves quickly follow suit because, while they are smart enough to realize that they are too big for the feeders, they are too dumb to realize that they are the invaders who sparked the mass exodus.
When the blue jays arrive, we, me and all of nature, share the same knowing glance and think, in unison, “oh bloody hell!” The blue jays take no shit. They are bullies of the highest order, and all the rest of us can do is wait awkwardly on the sidelines until they’ve had their fill. Regardless, they will probably still pick a fight or two on their way out.
My favorites are the nuthatches. They bring their fledglings, feed them from their beaks and teach them to fly under the safety of the backyard canopy. They are lucky because they are quick, agile; so when the occasional hawk makes a surveillance run from the open skies above our neighborhood, the nuthatches remain relatively unseen and untouched. The big, dumb doves are not so lucky.
Twice now, I have witnessed the swift and merciless taking of the doves. Well, “witnessed” may be a misrepresentation. The experience may be better described as a rush of wind, the cry of a dove, and a flurry of falling feathers in the quiet that follows. The feathers rain down for what feels like a year.
And as I stand there under the falling down, I pause instinctively to listen for the voice of God or Morgan Freeman because somebody should be pointing out that this is one of those moments, right? One of those moments where nature and life and death all converge, and somebody with more power than me, more knowing than me should be there to say so.