Thursday, Day 19: Birds

My mother lifted me so I could see the blue shell shattered, the violence of birth. The trees that lined our yard, shielded us from the neighbor’s driveway, were just tall enough back then for nesting in our view. We watched the tiny birds’ wet heads emerge, their first horrifying need. Food, food, the squawked, and the robin-mother touched her beak to theirs.

In comparison, the quail nest, even though it was right there three feet from our sandbox, was unreachable. The mother would guard her speckled eggs, circling, circling, squawking her warning. 

Don’t go near, Mom said, but one summer afternoon, bored,  my sister and I got as close as we could. The mother bird lifted her wings and lunged at us. My sister laughed while I ran away, terrified for some reason of that tiny, powerful mother-quail.

And now we live in an old house with nests in every rafter. Birds chirp all day, high pitched syllable, twit twit twitter, low, intricate melody--so many sounds. I wish I could recognize them. My daughter likes to study birds, to learn their names. She absorbs animal facts, then tries to impress me with her knowledge but asking me questions she knows I won't be able to answer.

"Why do they sing?" My daughter asks. "I mean, birds in general, why do they sing?"

She is trying to stump me. 

She waits patiently, shaking her head through the following answers:

*To tell what they need.
*To show they are fierce.
*To protect what they cherish.
*To begin and sustain the dance of relating. 
*Because in some bird-way, they know how to love.

"The right answer is, to attract a mate," she says. 

"That's what I meant by the dance of relating," I say back. 

"Mom," she says, smiling. "You're such a weird poetic creature." And then she's back to her bird book. "I think maybe I saw a female dark-eyed junco today, but I'm not sure. It could have also been a female indigo bunting. Sometimes, from far away, even with the binoculars, it's hard to tell."