Friday, November 19, 2004

Heads Up

They are, apparently, back.  Screechers of song, chaotic flockers, scourge of the baldheaded: starlings are not native to California, or even to the U.S.  They’re the single biggest success of a 19th century experiment to propagate the birds of Shakespeare in the US of A.  Most of that breedingstock, released into Olmsted’s storied Central Park, failed and died.  But starlings did fine and spread from sea to starling sea, filling the air with their dense, almost viscous flocks.  Individually, starlings are undistinguished birds, barely bigger than a sparrow, with a sharp eye and dark plumage.  However, starlings aren’t often seen individually – they live in flocks and they flock distinctively, swarming and swirling, an airborne amoeba, pulling against the mass of themselves and twirling aloft like hot airborne taffy.  They’re visually fascinating.  Their song, on the other hand, is a shrill unmusical chirp; en mass, it’s the sound I’d expect from a rioting crowd of space aliens. 

Just down the hill from the bus landing at the TBT where I wait at the end of each day for my ride home, a few sturdy pine trees rise from an improvised latrine disguised as a bit of hedge and lawn.  One of those trees overhangs the spot where my bus pulls up for boarding.  I now reach this zone at dusk and the starlings are back in town, so as I stand and wait the air is pierced by thousands of screeching birds calling out their essence to each other and the heavens.  They pour in from the four corners to the tree over my head, hopping from branch to branch, secreting themselves for the evening among the boughs and needles.  I watch flocks swoop down, thousands of birds moving as one in a bulging, morphing mass, their chirping incessant, the branches overhead alive with the tiny leaps of tiny feet, the hover and flutter of tired wings… the sky above us is a rich deep blue, a heartwrenching hue against which the fluttering birds coruscate, the clouds they form stretching but not breaking, transparent yet opaque…

and with all this life, this sound and action, the colors and shapes and the cool dusk air and the sheer joy of flight and fellowship enlivening the air I’m breathing, the only thing I can think is, one of these days one of those damn things is gonna crap right on my scalp.  I could wear a hat, but I don’t.  I’ve been inside all day; my skin yearns for contact with the elements, the evening cool on my brow.  I’ll tempt fate.  And when the inevitable happens, I’ll have only myself to blame. 

Have a great weekend.  Keep your head up.

One of the things I missed most about living in Texas was the starlings. While living there, they seem to be a nuisance, however once they’re gone the lack of that distinctive call leaves the air very empty.

Just had to listen to a starling event the other day. They had adopted a tree behind me as their stopping ground. I like to go out there to have my quiet time and it is darn hard when there are starlings involved!

I figure that if you’re bald, you can feel that BAM!! from up there and take care of the problem; but if you have hair, especially big hair or Brylcream hair, you won’t feel anything, and you’ll walk around with bird shit in your hair all afternoon.

I’ll trade you those defecatious starlings for the hooting owl in the tree outside my window last night that would NOT SHUT UP

I thought engines of our ingenuity was a local houston show. when it comes on and i’m getting in my car, then I know i’m late for work. :)

During the day they come out to the villages.  Bossy birds, they push the smaller birds away from food.
There’s a lovely Poem by British poet Pam Ayres.  “I’m a Starling.... me Darling”
(first verse)
‘We’re starlings, the missis, meself and the boys,
we don’t go round hoppin’, we walks,
We don’t go in for this singing all day,
And twittering about, we just squarks.’