Remember that vast flock of starlings or sparrows or whatever kind of dinky little birds we have here in Arizona that I saw swimming outside a few days ago? Right. The ones at the pool party, doing high dives from the massive ash tree that shades the kids’ trampoline, skipping over the water’s surface like they’re barefoot water-skiers, and wiping out in that huge mud puddle at the end of their runway?
Well, I was sitting here at my desk today, writing my
first potentially uber successful future novel while I drummed on the keys and
stared out my picture window at the sister goats across the street, when a big
shadow passed overhead, blocking out the sun. I looked up at the formerly blue sky in
curiosity and, to my amazement, it was obliterated by an entire squadron of
starlings all heading north to find another water hole to play in. I assumed.
A strange longing rose up in my chest, and I thought
to myself, why can’t I fly through the air like those backyard sparrow things? The
answer burst my helium balloon. Because a hawk would snatch you right out of
the sky, that’s why.
I’m not kidding. I witnessed it once, right above Katy’s
house. We were standing outside together, her family and I, marveling at God’s
beautiful spring evening, its sunset sky painted in ever increasing hues of
purple and orange when, cue the birds, two dark figures emerged like planes
soaring overhead, a smaller one in front with a larger one flying in tandem
above it. That must be its wingman, I thought in admiration. Isn’t nature
simply beautiful? So peaceful and . . . oh, my God. Did that big bird just eat
the other one?
It happens. Right in the middle of your Wonderful
World of Disney, the Pirates of the Caribbean get radar lock on It’s A Small
World and the next thing you know, everyone in the audience goes home with PTSD as a souvenir.
That mesmerizingly beautiful hawk you admired? He’s a traitor. Watching in
horror as the raptor closes the gap between himself and his prey, you realize
how wrong you were. He wasn’t the wingman for that starling. You’ve been
watching an aerial dog fight between the Red Baron and Tweety Bird, only this
time being small and cute is what foodies call “an appetizer.”
“Abort! Abort!” you frantically yell, but it’s too
late, and you don’t speak bird anyway. It’s over. Your idyllic view is ruined
by reality. It’s the call of the wild. The way of the world. Survival of the
fittest. Every bird for himself. Set against the crimson and burnt orange
backdrop of a fading sunset, the hawk flies away and a solitary feather
flutters to the ground below. Bon appetit.
Eewww.
I’d give up on my attraction for hawks except that I remember seeing all those birds trying to drown each other in our backyard pond. There’s a reason we use the term, “bird brain.” Remember how I told you about how many of them keep nosediving into the windows on my house? Until last night, there had never been a casualty. I heard the crash, the loudest so far, but since it was the Fourth of July, I assumed it was a firecracker exploding. The thought crossed my mind it might be a sparrow instead, but either it had to shake it off or else it was time to go meet Jesus. I don't do CPR on birds. This morning, I counted to ten over the lifeless body of a mourning dove lying outside on the ground and credited the Knockout to the living room window.
It's kind of unfair to the window to put the blame there. After all, it was just an innocent bystander, standing
its ground. Frankly, I think it was a successful kamikaze maneuver on the part
of the dove except my house didn’t burst into flames.
It's just plain dangerous to be a bird around here. There’s
Jules’ cat, Ruthie, who is always stalking them and leaving piles of feathers
at our front doors like grisly love notes. You’d sure expect something sweeter and more refined from someone with a name like Ruthie. Then, as I mentioned, there's my house with all of its villainous windows. And hawks are always on
the prowl for fowl. For several years, there’s been a tight-knit family of these
peregrines house-hopping from neighbor to neighbor, setting up residence in
their tall trees. This year they found temporary shelter in Katy’s yard until
the eight-year-old boy living next door peddled his little bike, Wizard of Oz
style, down the street and up Katy’s driveway, pounding on her front door in
agitation. Her twelve-year-old son answered the door.
“Your hawks are killing our chickens,” the boy
exclaimed, “and you’d better do something about it!” Then he turned around and
left on his bike, his threat hanging heavy in the air as if we should dispatch
the wild creatures or our little dog might be in jeopardy. If we had a little
dog.
We dispatched nothing. We’re afraid of the hawks, too.
We saw what they did to that poor little starling.
I don’t know. They make flying look so fun. And then there's all that splashing around in mud puddles. But I don’t think being a bird is as wonderful
as I once imagined. I know God said he notices every time one of them falls to
the ground. But if what they’re known for is falling to the ground, then I’m
gonna cross them off my list of things I want to be when I grow up.
I already have both feet on the ground. I think I’ll just
stay put and keep enjoying the Enchanted Tiki Room from the safety of my front
row seat.
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