A CONFLUENCE OF BIRDS

 
 And now they flew down to me.
 They were my wild family.
           --Pablo Neruda, “Chilean Pigeon,” Art of Birds

 

 
 
 

An unbelievable confluence of birds--scattering every which way in liquid  waves of chestnut, platinum, sable, cream, crimson, ocher, rust, sage, indigo feathers--a chaotic surge of song, call & answer, cry & flutter--the great shock of dozens of white wing doves rising as one:  clapping a gunshot.

As if on this day, the many paths of migration have found their point of convergence here in my yard.  These are not the ones that mark the canvas of sky with their great determined V’s pointed north and that fly over unmindful of the human dwellings below.  These are the short-flight scurryers, moved by the bursts of wind from tree to tree until they are at ease.

They sort themselves out by niche.  There are the ground scratchers, the leaf flippers, the trunk hoppers, the high drummers, low brush skulkers, low branch flitterers, high crown soarers.  The heavens are sorted out as well:  waves of waxwings, finches singing on the wing, swallows, swifts, martins then hawks.  Sometimes the hawks descend fiercely from their high, lazy circles to swoop down among those busy at the seed.  Somehow the prey always knows--taking refuge in the dense shrub.  Once, a hawk perched atop a tall tree stump, scanning the yard for a long stretch of time--over an hour--while the sparrows huddled quietly snickering in the bamboo only a few feet away.  Even in the night the dark spaces are divided between purring owls, and noisy nightwings & killdeer.  And of course there are always the irreverent clowns--the wrens, chickadees & tufted titmice who could care less about assigned niches as they dart & explore & dangle upside down.

Surely I've been named the “crazy bird lady” by now for even the most unobservant would have noted the remarkably large number of birds that navigate my home.  They must wonder if I use magic...I’ve been accused of being a witch before.  I must admit it does inspire a magus-like sense of power in me.  But this is no manipulative conjuring.

Why do the birds come?  I give them water & seed to be sure--the increasing flocks of waxwings staining the water wine-red.  But that's only part of it.
 

 because I received those wings in my soul
 and immobility never held me down
              --Pablo Neruda, “The Poet Says Good-Bye to the Birds,” Art of Birds

 

 
 
 

I think it is this:  if you love something enough with a clear & open heart, it will know & find its way to you.

No magic at all.  Just a pure love for what the birds are, filled with the joy of  how they are as they are free to come and go--season after season after season.
 

 The world is a crystal sphere,
 if he does not fly man loses his way--
 cannot understand transparency.
 That is why I profess
 unconfined clarity
 and from the birds I learned
 passionate hope,
 the certainty and truth of flight.
               --Pablo Neruda, “Interlude:  the Flight,”  Art of Birds

 

 
 
 

I do not own them.  I simply love them.  They know this.

Little gods.  I am blessed.
 

 And I too cease:  I have described the Way--
 Now, you must act - there is no more to say.
               --Farid ud-Din Attar, “The Conference of Birds”

 

 
 
 

2/16/2001
Ingrid Karklins