i_have_noticed_the_birds epitome of incomprehensibility "Somehow, I have noticed the birds more than before. Cardinals, finches, hummingbirds, blue jays. Alison put up some feeders. The birds come regularly. Their movements are nervous. They have always been. But I see that nervousness now more emphatically." -Ilan Stavans, from https://lithub.com/three-authors-leave-stay-dream-and-long-for-elsewhere/ The interview's a bit all over the place, but maybe that's the point. It's generally focused on three writers' reactions to the pandemic. The bird part resonates: I also remember seeing a lot of them in the spring. My guess was that the planes keep them further away, normally (I live close to an airport), but there were more of them recently because air traffic was greatly reduced this spring/summer. But maybe I noticed them more because I was around more during the day. It was exciting to see a pileated woodpecker not too far from my parents' house (I usually just see the black-and-white striped kind here; the pileated ones, which have a red crest, I'd only seen in rural areas). And I found the birds calming in a silver-lining sort of way, nature taking back its place after the mechanical birds have been stilled. Like the story of the emperor and the nightingale. 200908 ... e_o_i ...springing into spring. A robin hopping on a fence. A red-winged blackbird grabbing onto a branch. And then small but vocal Vs of Canada geese in the sky. 250319 ... raze the sparrows are back after a long time away. the doves and starlings and robins and gulls are too. the cardinals, crows, and blue jays never really left. i hear the hawks now and then, but they're seldom seen. it's always a special feeling when a songbird seeks you out and seems to sing hello in their own sweet way, even if the music isn't meant for you alone. 250319 ... ovenbird Yesterday. A leucistic Dark Eyed Junco in the brambles, head streaked with white feathers where there is usually only black. We were gathered with our cameras trying to get a picture because it was clear that this bird was a rare and beautiful thing. We were drawn to its strangeness. We were entranced by its oddity. I wonder why we cherish the dappled things and the most unusual beauty when it is outside of ourselves, but condemn the same when it shows up in our own souls. 250319 ... ovenbird This morning. Juvenile bald eagle perched and watching. I wonder if the ducks can feel that predatory stare from where they splash in the water. I hold my breath but the eagle doesn't seem interested in hunting. Humans are the most dangerous animal on this planet, but I have always felt like prey--my heart prone to beating too hard and too fast, panic rising to the surface, even beauty prompting swift overwhelm. Maybe I was meant to be a hummingbird with a heartrate up to 500 beats per minute. Maybe then, instead of being swept up in the currents of somatic anxiety, I would be keeping myself aloft on the tiniest wings, thinking only of the next source of nectar, my little heart a flashing blur. 250322 ... ovenbird The Northern flickers are nesting in the shipyards again. Two years ago we watched the babies fledge and my daughter was surprised to find herself crying. "They're so perfect Mom!" she said, as she touched her wet face in amazement. I knew then that I must have done at least one thing right if nature could wrest from her heart a joy as pure as that. 250323 ... ovenbird Mary Oliver has this beautiful poem called Snow Geese that makes these birds sound like the most profound gift to the senses. Go read it. It's a great poem. But I'm here to tell you that when you live smack in the middle of a snow goose migration route their presence is a different story. The playground at my kids' school is a minefield of goose poop. I have had to get antibiotics for my dog THREE TIMES because he thinks this goose poop is part of some outdoor buffet. I have a special soap I wash my dog's feet with every time we come in from a walk so that he won't track the goose poop everywhere and potentially (my anxious mind whispers) expose us to avian flu. Look, I love birds. I want to know their names and recognize their calls and let a part of my spirit fly wild among them. But geese are not as romantic as they're made out to be. Where Mary Oliver saw them "through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly" I see mostly the mess they leave behind. For every flock of snow geese forming that perfect V in the sky know that there is an entire playground rendered unuseable due to goose poop. For every time you wake in the night to the haunting calls of the geese flying overhead know there is a dog suffering from a VERY upset stomach. Believe me. I know. 250324 ... ovenbird A white crowned sparrow singing. I recognized its song and knew its name and that is the kind of tiny miracle I live for. 250325 ... ovenbird When you bring your binoculars on a walk you will not see a bird. If you go without your binoculars you will most definitely see some spectacular feathered thing that you can't quite identify because you don't have your binoculars. This is a law of the universe. 250326 ... ovenbird A Great Blue Heron fishing, its beak murderous. Wading in the shallows it barely disturbs the water and I feel something like grief rising in my chest. The Heron never wonders if it belongs. The Heron and the river are one. It is home in a way that I will never know. 250327 ... ovenbird 250330 Song Sparrow. You are often described as small and drab. The birders with their binoculars catch sight of you, sigh, and say “it’s only a sparrow.” But I know better. You may not be much to look at–no flashy colours or ostentatious plumage, but you have a song that turns winter into spring. So when I see you today, tucked away in the branches of a not_quite_ blooming tree, I don’t say “it’s only a sparrow.” I wait. I wait until you raise your voice and chirp your heart song to the morning. You are only a sparrow and you are so beautiful and bright and brave. 250330 what's it to you? who go blather from