Thursday April 26th 2012 Tim
Last Autumn one of
the Southern Mockingbirds - I decided she was a girl - struggled with
her molt. There she was in Wisteria, featherless around the neck,
and shy. Lice, I guessed. As well it was a raucous time in her community
because territory was scarce and Mockingbirds plentiful.
Fights and flying around, laying blame and yelling at each other.
That circus of bad temper and fearfulness that my own species in similar
circumstances falls so easily into.
It was around that time too, that
Mockingbirds here forgot to sing. There was an occasional vague
attempt at an aria, but such was the stress, the storm and angst, that
almost everybody came to the conclusion that singing beautiful and
lonely from the top of a taller tree, was not the way to resolve the
imperative of a territory upon which to feed through winter into spring.
Spring came a little early this
year, and I guess Mockingbirds too were surprised by its suddenness.
As well, through a warm winter there had been considerable tension.
And this year Mockingbirds have been so busy with each other, those
moments of yearning and dreaming of others that might once have resulted in
a song have all been lost to the fury of property. I can hear it, through
morning and afternoon into the evening. I'll call it rage and without
happiness, and it's un-resigned, I have decided
There is one Mockingbird out there,
and it's a girl I have decided, that's lost all of her tail feathers except
one which is a white feather. It makes her a little clumsy when time
comes to land on the electric line. Easy for me to also decide she's
the Mockingbird that so struggled with her molt last year. And already
she has a child that can hop about and fly into Autumn Olive, where he can
stare at me and I can wonder about him.