I have been trying to spend more time outside, not letting the last of autumn slip by me. I am attending to bird sounds, trying to connect calls to the birds which make them. I now know the three note chits of the red winged blackbird, the chortling trill of a song sparrow. I am still not sure which bird makes the lilting two note see saw sound, but I’m hoping to connect more calls as I study them more.
A dead pine stabs through a patch of tall oaks, and at the top of that tree is where birds like to perch and sing lonely tunes. One was there today, on the highest possible twig of the highest possible branch, riding the stem as comfortably as if it were in a boat cresting the waves. They are effortless, these birds. What seems precarious and tenuous to me, birdy claws clinging to substance no thicker than their spindly legs, to them is undaunting and fine. Falling, I guess, is impossible for a bird. Even if high winds unclenched them from their perches, it would be no more to them than a Red Rover game is to us: blasting through a barrier, and barreling on.