Birds in the Bush, Birds on the Wall, Birds on the Wire

“He's putting his shoes on! He's putting his shoes on! She told me, she told me! She said he's putting his shoes on. Can't you see? Can't you see? Look! He has one shoe on, she said he has one shoe on!”

The tweeters (sparrows) gather on the wall opposite the living room. They watch me. Sometimes just 2. Sometimes nearly 10, usually, many more. All lined up. Evenly spaced if you can believe. Patiently impatient.

Once word gets out that I I'm finishing putting on my armor for the day (And that's a fairly accurate description of what I look like after getting my first cup of coffee very, very early in the morning) the crowd of birds becomes restless. I take a quick look out of the kitchen door to the top of the pole where the pigeons sit. It doesn't matter if I only see 3 or 4, there is some kind of smoke signal system that goes on between the pigeons and the tweeters and the tweeters and the doves and the doves and the pigeons.

Phyllis is my translator. She is the one that can listen to the songs that the redheaded finches sing from the top of the high wire and from inside the bush that lives on top of the wall and behind it, and translate, note for note, word for word, and pass the message along to me.

It appears to be the same each morning. The sentry sparrows sit directly opposite my recliner, my chewed-up-by-the-cats-recliner, and pass along my progress (which seems to get slower and slower each day since I officially became an OLD MAN several months ago.

Although I can squeeze out an hour or two without my armor while I wrestle with sleep, it does not take long after I am awakened by one of the three cats (who wail to the high heavens if Phyllis or I say the ‘B’ ’WORD” in their presence) to begin the arduous process of protecting every joint in my body from falling off in ignominious defeat before my feet can find the floor.

It always starts the same way. My neoprene elbow sleeves slide on first. They are quickly followed by the wrist wraps – which usually are sufficient until I hit the computer and my hands start screaming at me. The knee skins are next. They actually put a spring in my step that propels me forward and prevents me from crashing to the ground prematurely.

Then my special shoes. Bouncy shoes. They create a demilitarized zone between numbness and nerve damage. They make walking almost tolerable, almost bearable.

“He’s got both shoes on! He’s coming, he’s coming!”

I would be lost without Phyllis’ ability to translate the tweets and twitters into something even mildly understandable. But she can -- and she does. I truly don’t let any of this go to my head. I redirect it to my heart, where it belongs.

I exit the garage and make a hard left immediately. I see the blurs of wings fluttering furiously over my head as they dive bomb into the bushes not 15 yards in front of me. Birdies in the bush, Birdies on the wall, birdies on the wire above me. A hop from wire to bush to wall so quickly that it makes you mildly dizzy, no, make that mildly inebriated with their passion to be in the same place as me (probably, most probably, ‘cause I’m the guy with the seed).

Whatever devils were in my head have long since been vanquished. It's impossible not to smile when you see them, especially when you see them lining up on the wall as if this was some kind of military parade. It’s impossible to not let go of whatever was nagging at the base of your soul, dragging you down to the same levels of the demons that take such great pleasure in tormenting you. 20 feet ago I had already started giving thanks to God. The song of the tweeters has hit an actual crescendo so intense that you begin to levitate oh so very slightly.

My rough count shows about 40 sparrows and 3 doves so far. Now comes the part I can’t comprehend at all. The Pigeons. What starts out as four sitting patiently on top of the electrical pole, waiting for their friends and neighbors to arrive, quickly inflates to between 30 to 40 absolutely stunningly beautiful-fat-birds impatiently waiting for their breakfast to be served. They coo loudly. Half the coos are for me, the rest are for their mate-to-be. They chase the girl pigeons relentlessly. I can’t tell which is more important: finding a mate or having breakfast. Somehow, they manage to swing chaotically from one to the other. Food and females make them giddy, almost like a good joint did on a cool spring day forty or so years ago.

As I quickly move from west to east, dropping seed on the sand with a well defined cadence, the song seems to escalate to the sounds of a high school marching band getting ready to strut their stuff. I don't know how many people entertain over 80 birds several times a day. I won't even look at my monthly Amazon bill since at least half of it is there to pay for their breakfast, snack, and dinner.

How do the pigeons know I am scattering the seed? How do they replicate themselves from 4 to 40 in little more than a heartbeat? They can't see me, yet one or more can communicate across a half a mile with little more then he flick of an eye or the nod of their head. Not an exaggeration. I see it every day and every day it befuddles me. I cannot explain it. 3 fly up from the south triggering those from the east to launch their assault on the seed at precisely the same moment. They land momentarily and what was 5 becomes 10 and what was 10 becomes 20 and they lift off like a giant Saturn rocket on its way to the moon. But instead of making it into outer space they simply circle our property and magnetically attract at least a dozen or two more to their circle.

I do not share this moment with friends or neighbors. No one, not even Phyllis, accompanies me as I have these brief retreats where something very mystical happens. I know where it comes from, I cannot hide that. Everything that God has created is good and holy. Who moves the first mover? (Hint: no one). It is not a subject up to defend or deny, although I will defend it to anyone who denies it.

I am just the messenger, nothing more. My portraits of these birds -- and they are as formal a portrait as any I was paid for during my very heady career as a commercial photographer – attempt to capture moments that the birds themselves present to me. One Black Phoebe spent 20 minutes leaping from branch to branch in the olive tree in the front yard, striking such a variety of poses one would expect to see on a high budget fashion shoot.

The very frivolous gallery that represents me sees no value in these portraits. I guess I should not have expected more. The way they reeled backwards like a snake exposed for what it is when I asked for this line to represent the small smattering of bird portraits they have on display (“God is the artist, I am only the messenger.”) reminded me of the quintessential moment in the original 1931 version of “Dracula” as the Count slinks backwards, hissing and nearly describing a circle. The serpent yields as Van Helsing holds up a mirror, revealing no reflection, exposing him for what he truly is.

All art is a reflection of the generation that created it. The Vapidity I see (which deserves to be capitalized) denies these small but eminently beautiful creatures the moment in the sun they deserve. Such is life. But this digression must end now, and end for good. Dawn is approaching, and my hands grow weary of pounding the keys.

A pox on Microsoft for bewildering their once dominant speech-to-text software. It is nothing more than a cruel joke, the lamentations of a failing and flailing graduate student somewhere in America, who took a marvelous tool and turned it into something that seems to intentionally translate the right words into the wrong ones.

I am done. The birds are waiting.