For the Birds

Photo by Brad Anner

I haven’t slept well for the past three nights which is making this week’s post difficult to write. But then there are things making it difficult for me to sleep which in turn makes it difficult to do almost anything.

            What is it about this time of year? It’s the first day of autumn. My auto-correct wrote autism. Is it the first day of autism? Imagine that. The weather’s changing, leaves are falling, and guess what else? Not a very jokey subject, but there is this feeling of not being able to communicate whatever the hell is going on out there, or for that matter, in here.

            Today’s a gorgeously warm, sunny day and my yard is full of small brown birds fluttering and darting about from the trees to the bushes, to the fence, to the feeder. After sorting and picking through the seeds Greg generously provides for them, they drop a huge mess on the ground of broken and discarded shells.

I hate these birds and I want to be one of them.

            These birds have no future and no past and as far as I can tell, none of them are aging. They probably got a good night’s sleep, their chins look taut and beauty is of no concern. You can barely tell one from the other. They have no jobs, no names, no expectations. They simply eat, sleep, fly around, sing a bit, begin again.

            Actually, there is this one that seems a bit worried. He’s teetering on the clothesline, bobbing back and forth, looking apprehensively over his shoulder at the other guys at the feeder. He sees Hal who got that promotion he wanted, and Joe who’s been checking out Maybeline behind his back and what the hell, why not just go over and show them what’s what? So Bonsoir makes his move and heads over to the feeder where Hal and Joe pretend not to notice him at first. Then there’s some fluttering, spitting, and before you know it...

            Bonsoir is back at the clothesline singing. Those guys aren’t worth it, Maybeline is a two-timing floosy and what was that that just flew by? A butterfly, small, white, delicate…Hold the phone there, perverts. Inter-species relationships are a bit too advanced for young Bon here. But he can appreciate beauty and grace when it practically flies in his face. Doesn’t everyone?

            He continues to sing, focusing now on shivering shadows of leaves on the ground, tall grass bending in the wind, a low swooshing sound like waves on an ocean, though there’s no water near.

            Turns out Bonsoir is the Josh Grobin of songbirds, if you’re into that kind of thing. And now he’s joined on the line by Babette, a real looker by dull brown bird standards. Feathers, beak, head that bobs around aimlessly, the whole nine. They look into each other’s small black dot on the side of the head eyes and it’s immediate, intense, and ultimately real.

            There’s no time for talk here. A couple chorus’s of “People will Say We’re In Love” and they’re back at Bon’s place, chewing on some worms and throwing down some eggs and heating things up with some hot brown bird love (that’s probably out of order, but I told you I was tired and these damn word processors! You know how they don’t change things. Once it’s written, it’s THERE! Remember white-out? Who remembers white-out? Can we install white-out on my computer, like, NOW)!

            Bonsoir and Babette Bellagauche are getting along swimmingly. Bon has become a Castrato in the Italian opera of Chicago and sends his checks back to Babette and the brood who visit my yard daily as Babette recounts the beautiful love story of meeting Daddy on the clothesline and well...there they are. More ugly brown birds filling my yard.

Maybe someday they’ll all move to Chicago but until then, I welcome them. Though their manners are not much improved, I am happy to be supporting a young gifted family struggling in the arts and for now, my autumn is filled with song.