Yesterday morning I heard a familiar muffled, buzzing yet melodic “Meeewww” and saw the small slate gray form of one of the catbirds that frequent the backyard where I’m working. (Or is it me frequenting their territory?) They’re known to be evasive, but in my experience once they get used to you, they’re comfortable sharing space. I like the way they’ll turn their heads when I call, and for a second my eyes will meet theirs as they size me up.
They’re also copycats, like mockingbirds, perhaps slightly less showy about it. They’ll mimic other bird’s calls, other animals, even human voices, add some scat of their own and bundle it all into their own lively mix. They’re inquisitive and smart and have been documented to live in the wild up to 17 years.
Around noon the home-owner came by and rounded the corner to the backside for their home-in-progress where I was working. As she did, a streak of gray zipped into the backyard thicket with a soft stern warning sound. Startled, I told her it was a catbird, and remarked to her how much I was enjoying them here. They seemed to be relishing the quiet of the carpenter and his power tools being on vacation this week. She said she was excited to soon set up the three bird baths from their current home in this new yard. I assured her they’d be much appreciated in this heat!
So it was with great sadness that in between rounding that same corner after lunch to get a tool, then returning, I was stunned to find this little one lying on the ground. It hadn’t been there a moment before. I’d not heard a thing. There were no signs of predator attack, no marks on the body, no lost feathers. I gently nudged it a few times, hoping perhaps it had just knocked itself unconscious flying into one of the nearby windows. I held my breath and waited.
As I carefully collected it into my hand, it became obvious its neck was broken. I gently ran my fingers across the exquisitely varied, fine gray feathers, each with specific purposes. I noted the deep charcoal gray cap and russet colors beneath its tail. I pondered: How old are you? Are you female or male? For a brief moment I held it, sensing the near-weightlessness and perfection of its fragile form. At least you were singing right into your final hour.
No matter how sweet our song, how elegant our dress, how joyous, clever, or playful our behavior, we’re all headed to the same destination: feeding other life. We’re all part of this group dance until our curtain drops. I dug a shallow grave with my scraper and laid it in it, under the tree where I’d often seen it perch.
Later in the afternoon I heard another catbird calling, and assume it was its mate. I told it I was sorry its partner wouldn’t be returning to the nest this evening. No doubt similar scenarios of loss have played out billions of times over millions of years on this earth. The partner that’s left somehow makes do, life goes on.
I was grateful I’d heard the unique calls of this precious one, and that just hours before had let someone else know how much I appreciated its company. I hope you heard us singing your praises, Birdy.
Or maybe you were the type of soul that, without a need to bolster an ego, enjoyed singing your beautiful song, and intuitively knew it was worth singing and sharing solely for its own sake.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“I have a theory that the moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. I have tried this experiment a thousand times and I have never been disappointed. The more I look at a thing, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I want to see. It is like peeling an onion. There is always another layer, and another, and another. And each layer is more beautiful than the last.
This is the way I look at the world. I don't see it as a collection of objects, but as a vast and mysterious organism. I see the beauty in the smallest things, and I find wonder in the most ordinary events. I am always looking for the hidden meaning, the secret message. I am always trying to understand the mystery of life.
I know that I will never understand everything, but that doesn't stop me from trying.
I am content to live in the mystery, to be surrounded by the unknown. I am content to be a seeker, a pilgrim, a traveler on the road to nowhere.”
~Henry Miller, in “Black Spring”
.
They’re also copycats, like mockingbirds, perhaps slightly less showy about it. They’ll mimic other bird’s calls, other animals, even human voices, add some scat of their own and bundle it all into their own lively mix. They’re inquisitive and smart and have been documented to live in the wild up to 17 years.
Around noon the home-owner came by and rounded the corner to the backside for their home-in-progress where I was working. As she did, a streak of gray zipped into the backyard thicket with a soft stern warning sound. Startled, I told her it was a catbird, and remarked to her how much I was enjoying them here. They seemed to be relishing the quiet of the carpenter and his power tools being on vacation this week. She said she was excited to soon set up the three bird baths from their current home in this new yard. I assured her they’d be much appreciated in this heat!
So it was with great sadness that in between rounding that same corner after lunch to get a tool, then returning, I was stunned to find this little one lying on the ground. It hadn’t been there a moment before. I’d not heard a thing. There were no signs of predator attack, no marks on the body, no lost feathers. I gently nudged it a few times, hoping perhaps it had just knocked itself unconscious flying into one of the nearby windows. I held my breath and waited.
As I carefully collected it into my hand, it became obvious its neck was broken. I gently ran my fingers across the exquisitely varied, fine gray feathers, each with specific purposes. I noted the deep charcoal gray cap and russet colors beneath its tail. I pondered: How old are you? Are you female or male? For a brief moment I held it, sensing the near-weightlessness and perfection of its fragile form. At least you were singing right into your final hour.
No matter how sweet our song, how elegant our dress, how joyous, clever, or playful our behavior, we’re all headed to the same destination: feeding other life. We’re all part of this group dance until our curtain drops. I dug a shallow grave with my scraper and laid it in it, under the tree where I’d often seen it perch.
Later in the afternoon I heard another catbird calling, and assume it was its mate. I told it I was sorry its partner wouldn’t be returning to the nest this evening. No doubt similar scenarios of loss have played out billions of times over millions of years on this earth. The partner that’s left somehow makes do, life goes on.
I was grateful I’d heard the unique calls of this precious one, and that just hours before had let someone else know how much I appreciated its company. I hope you heard us singing your praises, Birdy.
Or maybe you were the type of soul that, without a need to bolster an ego, enjoyed singing your beautiful song, and intuitively knew it was worth singing and sharing solely for its own sake.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“I have a theory that the moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. I have tried this experiment a thousand times and I have never been disappointed. The more I look at a thing, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I want to see. It is like peeling an onion. There is always another layer, and another, and another. And each layer is more beautiful than the last.
This is the way I look at the world. I don't see it as a collection of objects, but as a vast and mysterious organism. I see the beauty in the smallest things, and I find wonder in the most ordinary events. I am always looking for the hidden meaning, the secret message. I am always trying to understand the mystery of life.
I know that I will never understand everything, but that doesn't stop me from trying.
I am content to live in the mystery, to be surrounded by the unknown. I am content to be a seeker, a pilgrim, a traveler on the road to nowhere.”
~Henry Miller, in “Black Spring”
.
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