E Pluribus Mores

Archive for July, 2013|Monthly archive page

Bird Life on the Island

In Uncategorized on July 3, 2013 at 9:24 am

Now, I have a great many interests, but I have never been much for birding.  Like anything, I am sure it becomes more interesting when you know the players on the field, or at least what they sound like in a thicket.   While no doubt there pelican audubonare as many birds on the mainland, and perhaps it is just me having the time to notice more on vacation, but on the island they seem to be everywhere.  Whether at the beach, where the trees echo with an endless game of “Mar-co…Po-lo,” or in the evening when the porch seems transformed into the deck of the star ship Enterprise: “be-weep-be-weep, be-weep-be-weep, doodle-ooh-deeee-do-lu.”  Then there are the enormous crows who sit atop barns and shout, “GET OFF MY LAWN!”  Or the majestic birds of prey:

Me:  “Look, Karen, an eagle!”

Karen:  “That’s a buzzard.”

Me: “No, on the point, to the left of that white rock.”

Karen:  “I’m looking at it.  It’s a buzzard.”

Me (handing Karen the binoculars):  “It’s a bald eagle.”

Karen:  “It’s bald alright.”

Me (taking back the binoculars): “It’s the noble symbol of our country…eating the intestines of that possum.”

But more notable, though considerably less majestic, is the notorious island, ‘It’s Fucking Morning’ bird.  It starts in about quarter to six.  Now I’m on vacation, so come quarter to six I can reasonably look forward to seven more hours of sleep.  But three feet from my window perches a small, non-descript, song bird:

“Mor-ning.”

“It’s moor-ning.”

“IT’S FUCK-ING MOOOOOOOOOOOOOORN-ING!”

Now I’ve heard of an ‘unkindness’ of ravens, or a ‘murder’ of crows.  After 20-30 calls, I figure we are about to have a ‘throttling’ of Fucking Morning birds.  That’s when things get personal.

“FUCK-ING HIP-PIES.”

“GO BACK TO MAAAAAD-I-SON.”

(after a pause)

“WE VOT-ED FOR WAAAAAAL-KER.”

Karen rolls over and murmurs, “Just ignore it.”  But I already have my head out the window, and I’m shouting:

“YOUR AGENDA IS AUST-ER-ITY.”

“WORST JOBS RECORD IN THE NAAAAAAA-TION…”

“And how’s that working out for you, TURD-BIRD?  Take two billion dollars out of the state economy and refuse federal help and what does it get you?  Too busy looking under women’s skirts to propose something that might actually help the state economy?  I notice every third property on the island is for sale.  How is that investment nest egg coming?  You ignorant son-of-a-nut-hatch!”

(after a pause)

“HE’S GONNA GET RE-EL-EEEEEECT-ED.”

I slam down the window.  Then notice that Mya is giving me her best ‘Now-that-you-are-up-we-could-go-for-a-walk’ look, with an innocence that leads me to suspect money has exchanged hands between dog and bird.  But by now the sun is coming up over the far side of the island lighting the tops of the trees, and the cove has become unnecessarily beautiful.  So I grab what appears to be my least crusty tee-shirt and head downstairs.

“Come on, Mya.  Let’s make some coffee.”