A Little M-bird Never Hurt Anything
Today's title is a quote from my brother upon observing my cousin's astute representation of "beach" during a Pictionary-like game last Thanksgiving.
I went back to the graveyard last night and sat under the arbor where a Bewick's Wren had been so cooperative a few weeks before. It was bewitchingly peaceful, but neither my wren friend nor any others visited me in the overhead vines.
Still, I sat. Doves, kingbirds, robins, and grackles passed by overhead, but the featured species of the evening was that beloved crooner of Texas, the Northern Mockingbird. Little crooning was heard; laryngitis seems to have hit the central Texas population and all they seemed to manage was the voiceless buzzing that sounds pitiful from any species, including mine. A cold has afflicted my own vocal cords over the past week, and a refrain of "This Is My Father's World," which always seems to bubble up when I am enjoying the outdoors, fell flat upon the breeze.
The mockingbirds didn't mind me. I watched their behavior as they perched on the headstones for minutes at a time, twitching their wings and making themselves look poofy. One behavior I had missed by not spending time observing mockingbirds is their pattern of hopping, unfolding their wings for a split second, waiting, and then hopping again. Why?
Sibley explains why, but I never would have checked without a half-hour perch of my own in the mellow evening. I love summer.
I went back to the graveyard last night and sat under the arbor where a Bewick's Wren had been so cooperative a few weeks before. It was bewitchingly peaceful, but neither my wren friend nor any others visited me in the overhead vines.
Still, I sat. Doves, kingbirds, robins, and grackles passed by overhead, but the featured species of the evening was that beloved crooner of Texas, the Northern Mockingbird. Little crooning was heard; laryngitis seems to have hit the central Texas population and all they seemed to manage was the voiceless buzzing that sounds pitiful from any species, including mine. A cold has afflicted my own vocal cords over the past week, and a refrain of "This Is My Father's World," which always seems to bubble up when I am enjoying the outdoors, fell flat upon the breeze.
The mockingbirds didn't mind me. I watched their behavior as they perched on the headstones for minutes at a time, twitching their wings and making themselves look poofy. One behavior I had missed by not spending time observing mockingbirds is their pattern of hopping, unfolding their wings for a split second, waiting, and then hopping again. Why?
Sibley explains why, but I never would have checked without a half-hour perch of my own in the mellow evening. I love summer.
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