Birds? What birds?
When you’re focused on your enemy, then you’re ignoring your allies.
— Stacey Abrams
The snow is almost totally gone. The tarmac of the rail trail is everywhere completely clear. The temperature is mild, in the mid to high 50s, the sky is cloudy and the winds are light. I’m quite comfortable in a light jacket and Waldo is enjoying the cool weather as we start out on our daily walk. A sepia hue still lays heavy on the land, with barren branches, fallen leaves and yellowed grasses everywhere. But, here and there, a few green shoots do poke their tiny heads through the dead leaves covering the ground, reaching for the sun. Looking closely, I can see tiny buds on the tips of stalks too. Squirrels are cavorting about and, somewhere off in the brush, a few birds are serenading the world. Spring has sprung.
Waldo and I aren’t far into our walk when I hear a godawful fine-feathered avian kerfuffle in front and above us. It seems to be coming from a nearby tree, although I can’t tell which one. There’s loud, angry chirping, squawking, tweeting and cawing and it’s not in any way, shape or form melodic. There must be a good twenty or more different voices yelling at something, for some reason. There are so many different birds making all this noise that I decide it would be a good opportunity to add to my list of birds heard. I pull out my phone and start the bird-identification app.
In short order, a list of 11 birds pops up on the screen of my phone. I have never heard so many different kinds of birds at one time. Usually, the app identifies 1, 2, or even 4 different species. Sometimes, in the morning, when birdsong is rampant, it has listed 7, but only rarely. Certainly not 11! On the list are the usual denizens of the area: song sparrows, house sparrows, common grackles, tufted titmice, black capped chickadees, northern cardinals, blue jays and American robins. And it sounds like they are almost all squawking from the same tree! There are even 2 species on the list that are rare for these parts – a pine siskin and a cedar waxwing. Then I spot, at the bottom of the list, the first bird identified, a red-winged blackbird. Because of their character, I imagine that the blackbird is on one side of the trail, while all the other birds are on the other, telling the blackbird what they think of him:
“Go away!”
“We don’t want you here!”
“No blackbirds allowed!”
“Your kind is not welcome here!”
“Go back to where you came from!”
“We don’t want whatever it is you have to offer!”
“Scram!”
And all of them are talking at once, one over the other.
I’m amused at the thought as Waldo and I continue on, not at all harassed by anybody, despite the obvious high level of angst in the atmosphere. It’s like we are ignored, idle spectators to a more important confrontation that doesn’t include us. Then it occurs to me. This is the twenty-first century. I can check online to find out what science has to say about the idea.
A short google search shows, indeed, that my flight of fancy is correct! Multiple species of birds are known to congregate and mob red-winged blackbirds to drive them off. Apparently, they are such poor neighbors, because of their territoriality and aggressiveness, that many other birds don’t want them around. I’ll be damned. It’s amazing what you can learn just by paying attention.
I’m compelled to buy some birdseed and leave it out for my avian friends. I’d do it, too, except squirrels would probably get most of it (and they aren’t helping in the defense of the realm) and the blackbirds would surely eat some too. My appreciation for the avian world has increased in an any-enemy-of-my-enemy-is-a-friend-of-mine kind of way. And they are beautiful and sing such lovely songs too.
Waldo and I continue our walk and only hear 1 or 2 other birds, no one unusual. All the rest of the birds in the area must be at the beginning of the trail performing security duty. God bless them. The walk is pleasant and I enjoy watching closely as Mother Nature stirs in her reawakening from a long sleep. I see tiny clumps of skunk cabbage next to low-lying wet areas. Garlic mustard is popping up everywhere and there are nascent clumps of ditch lily. But no red-winged blackbird nests.
When we get back to the place of the furor, everything is quiet. Life has moved on.
You know, sometimes Mother Nature directs her aggression towards us, like the red-winged blackbirds dive bombing and strafing our heads in defense of their territory, and sometimes she rallies her forces in what amounts to our defense, like what happened today. But it’s never really personal.
It’s just life unfolding in its multivariant and ever evolving way.
Bah! Who cares about a bunch of birds? Can’t eat em’, can’t even catch ’em and they don’t want to play.