A third generation of bird babies is currently enjoying my bird park. Compared to their parents and grandparents, they are a distinctly relaxed bunch. But back then times were hard. I put out only one seed tube and a pie plate full of water which I considered a bird bath. The birds felt otherwise. I surrounded it with (what I considered) beautiful rocks that I'd found in the desert. I waited and waited but no birds ever went near it. It took me half of that summer to accept the fact that they hated the damn thing. Okay! So I still have a few character defects to work out.
Last year was the beginning of the Golden Age. First off, I got rid of the rocks. That turned the evil configuration into a simple bowl of water. Crows started softening bread in it and even the earliest bird ran over for a drink after landing. And about a hundred sunflowers volunteered, growing to different heights depending of how much water each one got. Several produced their own seed but even the most spindly, dwarf provided a perch. For anyone under six inches tall, a lovely green maze replaced the moonscape. Birds swayed on the tiniest branches and called it good. And after Plonk arrived, I started put seed out in earnest.
Speaking of Plonk, he and his girl friend haven't been around for a couple of weeks. They hung out at Dwayne and Thera's while we were in Mexico but came over as soon as we got home. I'm guessing right now they're busy sitting on some eggs. I hope so. I've never seen a baby pigeon. Have you?
But getting back to the third generation bird park babies. They are the first ones with parents brought here by their parents. You get the picture. For them, the place is a paradise that's been around forever. Sometimes after they've eaten, they just hang out as though the world is a safe place. Really lovely. Well, that's the big news. Now I have to get back to work. I'm throwing together a quick poetry zine to sell at the Juniper Creek Writer's Conference which is happening next weekend in Carson City. Also, this afternoon a bunch of us are meeting at Ellen's to stuff the packets for the event. I'm grateful I've found some other writers here. Otherwise, Nevada would be a pretty lonely place.
6 comments:
Ps. Really glad you like the park. It's ugly as hell from a House Beautiful perspective, but I imagine from a bird's eye view it's, as you say, wonderful.
Glad to repost.... :)
Actually, it might interest you to know that a pidgin is a simplified form of speech, a mixture of two or more languages that has rudimentary structure.... as in... I only speak English and you only speak Martian. Every day you come to my fruit stand to buy produce and we develop a pidgin, or contact language to make sure that if you want 3lbs of radishes on sale for .50/lb that you are not going home with 8lbs of bananas for $12/lb. Furthermore, if successive generations of English speaking fruitstanders and Martian vegetable buyers continue to see the need to communicate, but choose to not necessarily learn each others languages, that pidgin might evolve further to becomes what linguists call a creole, which is one evolutionary step closer to becoming a true language.
On the other hand, a pigeon is an underappreciated avian creature that seems to prefer urban environments.
...and, um, they are called juveniles not babies.
But wonderful, wonderful! Best use of a back yard space, freelance wildlife refuge. I applaude you
Thanks! I love applause ;) and I especially love the term “contact language”. And your definition of it. Classy. In fact, inspiring. It shed some light on a poem I’ve been wrestling with for about a month! Funny. Ya’ never know when you’re someone else’s muse.
And yes, pigeons are highly underappreciated creatures but as for calling their newborns juveniles”? Sorry. No can do. If Plonk brings his fuzzy babies by for lunch sometime, how could I possibly say to him “nice juveniles you have there, Plonk”? It’s so cold. I’m their godmother, fer christ’s sake!
So about the Vlorbik Award. Email to hear your selection. ;)
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