I realize that I am remiss in my duties to set the entire landscape and paint this story as it needs to be painted. Let me describe why I had all these birds gathered outside my window. It was simple. I had advertised for them.
It is a fairly direct matter. You need an area that is easy to get to with bird seed and easier to keep out the the predators like kitty cats who hide and kill and then leave birds to die on the ground just for sport. Make sure there’s corn and sunflower seeds in the feed. Then you need a strong ad message/ secret ingredient: water. Birds love themselves some water.
My baths consisted of three large basalt tubs stacked one two three together and each had a good size depression for water. The baths are where a lot of the bird action goes on. The Romans got nothing on power grabs at a water-themed park compared to the birds. Who knew that the Robin, aww a Robin, that kind of gushing silly anthropomorphic response to this bully of the baths, is just that, a bully first class. I saw a small grey and yellow warbler come up cuz it couldn’t take all the action at the big baths and so it sat on the fringes of them. A rock flower. So many Robins and Starlings and Jays and Woodpeckers and Bluebirds and Nutcrackers and Doves and Flickers hogging space and bragging about their bright feathers or marveling at how good the water felt at this time of year and isn’t late Springtime the best time in the world and so on. Bird bath chatter.
The warbler came to the party but took a bath in a tiny little saucer of water that rested in a shallow rock depression in a step. A wee teaspoon bit of water nestled in this rock. There was enough liquid in there to wash off the dust of travel and maybe a few mites or something. He would dip his head in and then shake it all about, like he was doing the Hokey Pokey, you know, ‘You put your left wing in, you put your left wing out. You do the hokey pokey . . . [It’s more of a group kind of song I realize now that I’m singing it out loud but you get the idea.]
This little guy was washing up and seemed to be enjoying the work of it when what happened? A dang robin came over to claim this tiny pond as his own and scared him off. Gone. Now what’s the oooh-la-la-look-it’s-a-robin-bastard-land-grabber gonna do with a teacup lake? Nothing. In fact he looked at it, scoffed once and took off back for the big bowl of water I had laid out into the rock baths. Just claiming territory because he was larger. Reminds you of Republicans. Or Democrats. Or sports talk show guys. Always claiming, ‘Well this is my idea/ land/ space. I thought of coming here before anybody. Remember what I told you last week when I predicted blah blah blah.’
Yeah right.
My point is simply that the birds love the water, which in the late spring, gets a little harder to find in these parts and some of them are bullies. So there they were splashing and crapping in the water, spritzing up their feathers and feeling like new little birds again. A grand time was had by all who had a ticket to these affairs which was pretty much everyone cuz I handed them out at the door. No VIP line, just come on in get wet and get fed. It seemed like the right way to have a gathering rather than sending out gilt invitations to only those dressed up in heels and feathers and smart looking jackets.
Back to those lovebirds, the wrens. Remember them? I have to say that there was not much to their tryst beneath the trees. Sorry for all that build-up but it’s the truth of it. The two of them had taken up residence in the ranch style birdhouse which perched ten feet up the pine tree near my window. Turn at the side of the house, fly up to the first low hanging branch, look up at the second, and there it hung. They had both been busy stuffing their domicile with twigs and fluff and branches and odd bits of string for a week or more.
It did look like a ranch style house too complete with a painted green roof and white siding with three holes drilled into it for doors. Only the house wrens had access to it. That is not to say that other birds weren’t interested in renting it. Many a time a bird would stop to look more closely giving it the appraiser’s eye and thinking to himself, I bet the Missus would like this place. I’ll take a gander at it. Maybe I’ll surprise her.
They would stop close by on a branch and Mr. Wren or maybe the Mrs. would come out like a freight train with a spear stuck on its front end and shoo that other bird away. Didn’t matter how big this critter was if they seemed to think about putting an eye or beak into the wren’s happy little ranch home. The Wren Family defended this place and by god no nasty corn-grabbing bath-stealing Junco or Finch or even a red eyed Towhee was gonna get a look inside it. ‘Go on. Git.’ And they chased off every lookee-lou.
Now as I mentioned I spied these two love bird wrens together hanging around their place, when all of a sudden she, the Betty Bird, flew out of their abode and sat on a rock above the Mister and they were whistling and calling at each other from just two feet away making me wonder if they were announcing something or just happy to see each other when she wiggled all her behind feathers in an obvious, to him, ‘Come hither’ message that wasn’t a bird bath kind of wiggle either, it was a jump up and fluff all my feathers, ‘Ain’t I a pretty one,’ kind of a wink wink to the Billy Bird. He, Billy, below on the bush, got the message in no time. She didn’t have to tell him twice. He flew up in a jiff above and behind her and in two seconds was done.
I exaggerate. It didn’t take two seconds.
That extra second makes it sound languorous like there was lots of moaning and rolling around on the satin bird sheets. Nah. It was a mutual connection, slam bam, thank you Billy. ‘Now get off me I got eggs to lay.’ They were a couple, no doubt about that, but the time for flowers and candy had long since passed them by. When it came down to the business of procreation it was time to do it and be done. ‘We got us a nest to populate.’ After it was done, the Betty Bird moved about a bit, fluffed up some of her finery, and then that she must have yelled at him then, ‘Bring me back some grubs.’ and scooted up to the birdhouse to get back to work on it.
Mr. Billy flew away cross eyed.
I only imagine this feature of course. He did sit there for a time near the baths. His work was done. His usefulness seemed over. He flew off after a few contented seconds to go find him some food or go grab a smoke and imagine his kingly duties before him. [Insert Tom Petty’s slow magisterial song, “Good to be King”, in the background.]
Yep, Billy’s new job of providing meals was just about to start. That’s how it was for these tough little critters. Nature would tear them up if they didn’t get busy so that’s what they did. Lots of activity to be seen at my roadhouse/ dive bar/ love shack. And this is just what the doctor ordered for me instead of listening to the Covid news, or tariff news now, about how we were gonna die, or live to tell another story, or survive on emergency rations or gruel or grubs for the next few months.
It was a confusing place to me was this Covid world of ours now. Much simpler to watch the birds. Put up a birdbath is my advice and throw out some seed to see who comes. Better ‘n television except maybe with all the swearing and bickering over space and mates and territory it’s pretty much the same. These bird brains don’t seem to have anything better to do once their major appetites are satisfied other than to make a fuss about things just like their distant relatives us humans.
We are a lot like the birds. Keep your eyes open these days. A bird brain like me sometimes forgets that.
