We're at that time of the year when it's still cold, but there are birds returning to the trees and the skies and to those invisible places where they perch and sing until it sounds as if they will burst. I don't know where they are when they do this, sometimes, but it is enough just to hear them. Since we live near a lake, there are countless geese around, specifically. Now, I know that Canada Geese make messes and whatnot, but I still think they are fascinating and beautiful. I don't have to clean up after them, though, so that might make a difference. I've driven by the lake recently on a grey morning and noted that the lake was even grayer – dotted with what must have been hundreds of birds. Mostly geese, but with the occasional seagull poised among them visiting with its bigger cousins. I stopped and stood on the little deck that juts out from the gazebo and just looked at them. More were coming in and so for a moment there were geese all around me – calling out to one another and dotting the sky with dark and beautiful shapes. I felt empowered and trivial all at once.
Geese are interesting birds. I don't know a lot about them (or about any birds, really), but I remember once I read that they assign amongst them sentinels who stand guard whilst their flockmates sleep and eat. You can see them if you look at a grounded gathering of geese – they are the ones scattered throughout with their necks craned and their heads swiveling as they gaze the area around the group. I've never seen one call out a warning that I'm aware of, they just watch and wait, protecting the group, no matter how large or small the gathering. They will gather everywhere, too – the lake, the median that divides the drive-thru from the parking lot at Tim Horton's, the ragged cornfields still sporting the truncated spikes of last year's stalks. I'm always happy to see them return.
I'm also happy that the crows stay through the winter. Crows are a different sort of bird altogether. I've always thought that if we were to transform a crow into a human, we wouldn't get Brandon Lee, but rather James Dean. T-shirts with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeves and a swagger that would give all the T-Birds a run for their money, even Danny Zuko. They really don't care. They are jet black rebels, sauntering around as if they own the world. If you drive too close, they reluctantly get out of the way and often seem cranky while they do it. They will walk rather than fly, as if to drive home how nonchalant and unconcerned they are. Their call is raucous and edgy. They sit in the tops of trees and just send call after call into the sky, that throaty squawk that makes their whole bodies move. Sometimes they are alone, and sometimes they gather in clusters – exuding malicious or mischievous intent. A murder of crows. It is no wonder to me that one of the animal-spirited divine beings of some of the Native Americans is Crow, and for others, it is Raven. I can see it every time I catch the sight of black feathers, which always seem stark against whatever environment they've chosen – whether it is road-side buffet, the tops of barren trees, or just strutting around a random patch of grass.
On the exact opposite of the spectrum of birds are the little ones – the sparrows and the finches. The ones that are coming back to us now in full swing, moving in stuttered, hopping movement that makes 'flighty' an apt, if somewhat pun-ish, descriptor. Tiny beaks and tiny feet, they hop around looking for some great treasure in food or nest-supplies. I also like the bright ones – the elegant cardinals and the trouble-making blue jays. I love them all: the gangly grace of the heron and the ugly confidence of the buzzard, the stately royalty of the eagle and the menacing beauty of the hawk. I even love the goofy persistence of 'sea' gulls and the homebody waddle of the duck.
I do not know a lot about birds, but the few tidbits I've picked up are interesting and oddly amusing. For instance, it amuses me that they believe dinosaurs may have more in common with birds than with other beasts. It's entertaining also that pigeons and doves are more or less the same bird. I find it fascinating that flamingos are only pink because of the algae that they eat. And I will forever have the image of a chicken in a tree because I saw it once, somewhere. I also chuckle that every big, circling, faraway bird in the sky is a turkey vulture. Just ask my dad. In short, all birds are beautiful and funny and fascinating and with that first robin and that first morning filled with birdsong, I cease to love winter and I long for spring…
In that moment, I agree with e.e. cummings, who once said: "I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach 10,000 stars how not to dance."
Sing on, my feathered friends.
Geese are interesting birds. I don't know a lot about them (or about any birds, really), but I remember once I read that they assign amongst them sentinels who stand guard whilst their flockmates sleep and eat. You can see them if you look at a grounded gathering of geese – they are the ones scattered throughout with their necks craned and their heads swiveling as they gaze the area around the group. I've never seen one call out a warning that I'm aware of, they just watch and wait, protecting the group, no matter how large or small the gathering. They will gather everywhere, too – the lake, the median that divides the drive-thru from the parking lot at Tim Horton's, the ragged cornfields still sporting the truncated spikes of last year's stalks. I'm always happy to see them return.
I'm also happy that the crows stay through the winter. Crows are a different sort of bird altogether. I've always thought that if we were to transform a crow into a human, we wouldn't get Brandon Lee, but rather James Dean. T-shirts with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeves and a swagger that would give all the T-Birds a run for their money, even Danny Zuko. They really don't care. They are jet black rebels, sauntering around as if they own the world. If you drive too close, they reluctantly get out of the way and often seem cranky while they do it. They will walk rather than fly, as if to drive home how nonchalant and unconcerned they are. Their call is raucous and edgy. They sit in the tops of trees and just send call after call into the sky, that throaty squawk that makes their whole bodies move. Sometimes they are alone, and sometimes they gather in clusters – exuding malicious or mischievous intent. A murder of crows. It is no wonder to me that one of the animal-spirited divine beings of some of the Native Americans is Crow, and for others, it is Raven. I can see it every time I catch the sight of black feathers, which always seem stark against whatever environment they've chosen – whether it is road-side buffet, the tops of barren trees, or just strutting around a random patch of grass.
On the exact opposite of the spectrum of birds are the little ones – the sparrows and the finches. The ones that are coming back to us now in full swing, moving in stuttered, hopping movement that makes 'flighty' an apt, if somewhat pun-ish, descriptor. Tiny beaks and tiny feet, they hop around looking for some great treasure in food or nest-supplies. I also like the bright ones – the elegant cardinals and the trouble-making blue jays. I love them all: the gangly grace of the heron and the ugly confidence of the buzzard, the stately royalty of the eagle and the menacing beauty of the hawk. I even love the goofy persistence of 'sea' gulls and the homebody waddle of the duck.
I do not know a lot about birds, but the few tidbits I've picked up are interesting and oddly amusing. For instance, it amuses me that they believe dinosaurs may have more in common with birds than with other beasts. It's entertaining also that pigeons and doves are more or less the same bird. I find it fascinating that flamingos are only pink because of the algae that they eat. And I will forever have the image of a chicken in a tree because I saw it once, somewhere. I also chuckle that every big, circling, faraway bird in the sky is a turkey vulture. Just ask my dad. In short, all birds are beautiful and funny and fascinating and with that first robin and that first morning filled with birdsong, I cease to love winter and I long for spring…
In that moment, I agree with e.e. cummings, who once said: "I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach 10,000 stars how not to dance."
Sing on, my feathered friends.
I have always thought the same thing about crows.
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