Non-Human Creatures

I guess I am respected in the feathered community.

In all my years, I have never experienced avian defecation on my person. I cannot say the same for my automobile, but I figure they don't keep track of which cars people drive. They have better things to do.

A friend, who shall remain nameless, once had her day at the amusement park clouded by such a sprinkling. Just as she looked over to exclaim on the bird feces on one sleeve of her coat, another bomb of the same ilk besmirched the other. Her friends, though sincerely devoted to her well-being, found stifling their raillery impractical. Actually, we all split our guts.

In a tone of heightened emotion, she sputtered, "Have you ever been pooped on by a non-human creature?!"

Her use of the hyphenated modifier exacerbated the situation.

It's been more than three years since then and they still keep their excrement off of me. I say it's all because of the chuckle we shared that day.

The God of Thunder

It is Thursday; there is time for pause.

Pause I did as I traveled down a non-major but not quite residential street through the heart of Stephenville. I had already observed several starlings, tailless grackles and mockingbirds and my moderate pace was sufficient to enjoy them. But up on the power line above a thicket sat--something.

It was larger than a mockingbird or grackle; smaller than the smallest hawk I had ever seen. Other than a dark bill, plain grayish front, and dark tail-tip, I didn't know what it really looked like. Again (tsk, tsk) I had gone out unequipped and unexpectant of roadside wonders. Squinting, I even realized I should probably wear my light-prescription glasses more than I do.

My quarry sat obediently stationary; darting glances in the mirror and over the shoulder assured me that as yet I provoked no road rage by my dalliance. I knew I would have to move, though, and my heart fell as I realized I didn't have any idea what I was looking at or even looking for.

Just as I abandoned hope and lifted my foot from the brake, a truck drove angrily by. I ascribe anger to the truck and retract not the descriptor; these domineering brutes have a life of their own in central Texas. Perhaps I would find the bird in subsequent research; perhaps I might even see it again after such enlightenment.

"Here pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope."

-Charlotte Bronte, Villette

Life as Usual

The brook bubbles once more.

A recent storm has washed the dust off the car and reinvigorated the stream through the park. I went back again today to see if it had done the latter--and encountered more nature than I'd bargained for.

The mosquitos were out in full force, and it will take several days to forget it. I anticipated this, but the slight tickle on my foot that on closer inspection turned out to be a large millipede took me a tad by surprise. When I followed him with my eyes back into the bushes (post-spasm), I also spotted a large black beetle who was obsessively interested in a short piece of twig, pulling on it, rolling around with it, but not accomplishing much that I could tell.

These critters are just as much a wonder of creation as the birds, but somehow I would prefer to have them scared of me as well. I'm not as interested in a closer look at an unpredictable, friendly and many-legged companion.

Over the last week, I have seen one Inca Dove; dreamed about one swimming Pileated Woodpecker (I know); heard incessant Blue Jays; and seen hundreds of scissor-tails frolicking together at dawn. Life as usual continually finds ways to be unusual.

Like a River Glorious

I went to the park because I couldn't stay inside any longer; the timing could have been better, as it was the hottest part of the day. The birds knew this even better than I.

I bring my book and binoculars and go down to the place I so cheerfully identified as a "bubbling brook" earlier this year. There is no visible water there now, but it is still a very shady, lush place in which a camp chair fits snugly.

The only sounds produced naturally are from quarreling squirrels. A Great Blue Heron flaps silently low over the creek bed, then croaks deeply as he disappears from sight. Finally, the familiar call I so recently wanted to be a Red-shouldered Hawk rings out again over the trees.

I read my favorite novel as a textbook for school, I call my mom for a terrific hour-long chat. Toward the end of it, the birds start singing again and the air cools off.

This isn't just holistic birding; this is holistic living. Ahhhhh.

What Is Real?

I saw a King Vulture, a Rhinoceros Hornbill, and an Andean Condor in Dallas yesterday.

Don't write me off as a quack; I was at the zoo. I joined a party of friends in the metroplex for part of the weekend, and a last-minute whim brought us all to the zoo around noon. I had not been to a zoo in more than ten years, and I was mildly excited to go. These critters couldn't get away before I identified them.

Alas, my non-birder friends were far more energetic to 'do the zoo' than was comfortable for my birding habits of slow movement, long, lingering observation and reading available information. I was constantly dragged from a place at which I wished to stay but did not desire to be left or resented. Though there were two aviaries with fascinating inhabitants, I probably spent a total of three minutes combined in them.

My companions were successful in the mission; we canvassed the entire place in two hours flat. I am not certain whether a more leisurely birding pace would have saved my feet, which were shod inappropriately for such activity, but I had not packed with any expectation of such a need and shoes are bulky and inconvenient cargo. I must admit I was extremely grateful when we left.

And not just because my feet hurt. After a broader experience with the fascinations of animals in the wild, it seemed so silly to stick them in cages. How can we possibly appreciate or admire who these creatures are when soaring birds are kept in ten-foot cages and antelopes in half-acre tracts? Seeing these animals 'for real' was not any more real than watching nature programs in which the animals at least have the capacity to behave normally. To my birder's eye, the one flitting glimpse of a Carolina Wren on my friend's back porch was more pleasing than the macaws and hawk-owls of captivity.

I saw a Victoria Crowned-Pigeon and had the same thought any ignorant city-dweller might have: that's a pigeon? This morning I find that the guru himself has posted a fantastic picture in his June 12 post. If I were more clever, I could link directly to that one, too. But I trust that you are more clever, and so I will let you find it.

I did see a Green Jay and could not contain my ebullience: "I saw one of those a couple weeks ago!" Though my audience was both incredulous and indifferent, I was satisfied to find that they (the jays) do look better when they pick their own trees.

As experience goes, I'm glad I 'did the zoo.' But I wish I could do some of it for real.

Sweet Certainty

What a difference an Inca Dove makes.

I wrote a longish melancholy post yesterday. Even my efforts to inject hopefulness and cheer failed, and finally I deleted it. After declaring the scissor-tails were gone, I had seen two; normally this would delight, but yesterday it was the last straw. My weakness as birder and blogger weighed heavily among my other failings, and even some of my fool-proof methods (Bible-reading, a talk with Mommy) could not bring me out.

I woke up this morning with no other plan than to take my binoculars with me to the park on my way to the gym. As soon as I turned onto my street, a dove flapped three feet across the grass. This dove didn't flap like a Mourning Dove. This dove didn't even flap like a White-winged. I stopped the car.

Beautiful, low-slung body, powerful orangy legs--and, ah me! Scales all over! I had not been fooling myself this whole time. I was right about something. Anyone who has been overwhelmed with feelings that quem is not right about anything will understand what celestial balm certainty is to the soul.

The world looks different now. Maybe I'm not hopelessly wrong about everything; maybe I could mend my outlook. Maybe I'm just a case.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Thousands of starlings fly southwest. Four--I think they're cormorants--fly southeast. Everybody's moving now. I've seen several flitting shapes that look different than the flitting shapes I've grown used to seeing over the summer.

The kingbirds are gone. The scissor-tails are gone. Many of the Great-tailed Grackles no longer have such great tails.

A cricket infestation fails to bring other visitors to the Humanities building. My eyes point downward now. One cricket falls onto my desk, walks a few inches, and somehow manages to flip himself over. He's still there, dead, the next morning.

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them

a time to embrace and a time to refrain

a time to search and a time to give up

a time to keep and a time to throw away

a time to tear and a time to mend

a time to be silent and a time to speak

a time to love and a time to hate

a time for war and a time for peace