The numerous quail who live in my neighbor Dwayne's sprawling Indian willow tree-o-life spend a lot of time here these days. They love nesting and bathing in the dirt. Yesterday afternoon there were about ten couples dozing under the bushes in a slow motion quail version of musical chairs. They belly out little tubs, lay in one awhile then switch places with each other, only no one gets left out during the switch. There are enough tubs for everyone. This morning, it being still cold, only one couple has made it over the fence so far. Napping is an afternoon pastime.
As far as the other birds go, the love talk, boasting and chest bumping has been replaced by an all day, every day feeding frenzy. As everyone knows, it takes a lot of calories to raise a family. The finches, red wings and sparrows drain the feeders by early afternoon but I've only seen one baby so far. It is a little early for that first trip to the Bird Park, but recently one fluffy toddler arrived in tow and, as usual, had no interest in feeding himself but instead chased the parent around with his mouth open, squawking for food.
I have always marveled at the relationships some people form with wild creatures but have never had any luck at it myself. A couple of years ago I tried engaging a particular crow in conversation but it didn't really go anywhere. I can identify a bird or two because of some unique physical characteristic, but that's it. There is Minerva with a swath of reddish feathers on the bottom of her left wing
(I assign gender arbitrarily) and her companion with an odd feather jutting out from his left wing. I believe Minerva is back this year but, if it is her, she is looking a lot the worse for wear. Last year only a few wing feathers were a dull reddish color, now most of her feathers are faded and worn out looking. As for her friend, I don't know. Perhaps the wild-hair feather dropped out but I am saying the faded crow is Minerva and I put peanuts out with the two of them in mind.
Early this spring a new bird made it to the park, a very decrepit pigeon. It is amazing he even made it through the winter. This guy was really in tatters. Now when we go into the backyard, we are usually met with a full face
flash point of wings which never fails to startle both us and the air. Big wings. Mostly big, squeaking pigeon wings pumping an emergency liftoff, occasionally mixed with the silent black wings of the crows. But Old Guy, as we called him, tottered away, maybe tossing a worried look over his shoulder but only, in the most desperate moments, was he willing to fly. We were his instant sympathizers and, if possible, avoided going into the backyard when he was around.
Old Guy's favorite place was what we call The Hills, a mound of dead sod Lee pulled up from the front last fall when he made a parking place for the off-road trailer. Old Guy liked The Hills, which we renamed Old Guy Hills in his honor. I'd show you a photo of him standing on them but my computer crashed yesterday, taking everything in the C Drive down with it. When will I ever learn? Lee partitions our hard drives to protect data from such things but I get lazy and don't move files to the safe D Drive so ...
poof. No photo of Old Guy in the Old Guy Hills. He was sweet though. After surviving presumably his last winter, he loved standing on the topmost mound, some two or three feet above the world. I put a tasty mix of cracked corn and seed in a crevasse at his feet but he didn't always eat it. He just liked to sit in the sun on his mountain top and dream. Good last days.
For a couple of years a little sparrow I named Buddha Bird hung out around the house. I don't know if she was old but she was very different. She liked sitting on the lawn chair in the back, or lingering in the shadows of a cubby under the fence. Sometimes she perched for a long time on a warm rock or meditated for close to an hour on the limb of tree. She reminded me of certain passages from
Desiderata.
"Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence." She hasn't been back this year.
"You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here." I miss her.
"Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul."
But this spring, I have a new friend, reminding me of the old adage
"be careful what you ask for."
A precocious crow has adopted me. He likes to talk and perches on the old wireless dish on the roof above the Bird Park and chatters away, three caws then silence. I caw back and so we go. It's fun. He doesn't fly off when I open the back door, walk across the yard or stand there making eye contact. He doesn't mind that I mangle his language but I can only imagine what the neighbors think. Good thing the immediate ones are nearly deaf, half blind or drunk. My friend and I have had many rousing conversations but now he has decided that 6 am is a good time to chat and has made a habit of sitting on the roof and doing his little three caw number for about fifteen minutes before starting his day. Lovely. He reminds me of a favorite childhood poem I used to make my mother repeat to me,
"A birdie with a yellow bill, hopped upon my window sill, cocked his shining eyes and said, ain't you shamed, you sleepy head." I wish Buddha Bird were here to teach him, I'll call him Charlie, something about meditation.
