Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree or disagree with him.
IN PRAISE OF AN EXOTIC BIRD
I’ve begun talking to the birds. This doesn’t mean that I’ve suddenly become Francis of Assisi. It means that I’ve become acquainted with a bird who seems intelligent, resourceful and relatable.
I regret to note that this is not an indigenous bird, even though I am in favour of giving great protection to our indigenous birds. The main tree in front of our suburban house is often a roosting opportunity for tuis and magpies. For some days the tuis are in charge and then for some days the magpies chase them away and take over. It’s like a ritual changing-of-the-guard. Of course I favour the tuis because they are indigenous and have delightful songs and because the magpies are aggressive and capable of attacking people. But then, given my experience as a tour-guide on Tiritiri Matangi, I’m aware that tuis are also aggressive when they chase away, from nectar-bearing flowers, other and smaller birds, such as the hihi (“stitch bird”) and the korimako (“bellbird”). And if you’ve ever seen a group of tui drinking from a communal water-bowl, you will see that they are quarrelsome and angry and capable of fighting within their own cohort. As for the magpies, I once had an epiphany when I saw a magpie interloping on Tiritiri Matangi and thought she had no right to be there. Then I realised that I as a human being had no more right to be there than she had. And I gazed and realised that, nuisance or not, a magpie is a very well-structured and formidable bird. One of evolution’s most handsome creations.
And yet, alas, I digress. For the non-indigenous, unassuming, affable bird I am talking about is the humble, modest orange-beaked blackbird.
My acquaintance with this agreeable bird happened thus: My wife, a diligent gardener, had noticed that as soon she had planted seeds to grow beans, capsicums, marigolds and other flowers or edibles, a hitherto unknown blackbird would hop along, stab its beak into the earth, and eat the seed. So much did this irate my wife that she took to cultivating beans, marigolds and capsicums in our enclosed upstairs conservatory. And yet, having watched the blackbird’s behaviour, I soon discovered the admirable side of the chap.
The blackbird would always hop (not fly) down from the highest bough to Mother Earth, oblivious to whatever quarrelling tuis or magpies were around. The blackbird would carefully survey the terrain, looking here, looking there, even [with one eye pointing in my direction] looking at me as I looked at him from the nearest window. The blackbird would then peck at the earth, stop, look around to make sure was no enemy or threat there, resume pecking satisfied that the coast was clear, then stop, look around to make sure was no enemy or threat there, resume pecking satisfied that the coast was clear, then stop, look around to make sure was no enemy or threat there, resume pecking satisfied that the coast was clear etc. etc. etc. A wonderfully judicious creature.
By this stage, seeds having been withdrawn from the patch he haunted, he pecked often at roots, occasionally at smaller leaves, although I never saw him hunt worms. Maybe this was just happenstance. Maybe blackbirds are not carnivores. I do not know.
In my presence, the blackbird was fearless. Yesterday I was mowing the front lawn, near and around the roots of the tree the blackbird favoured. For all the racket the motor-mower made, the blackbird did not retreat, but stood no less than three feet from me and my machine, waiting until I was mowing elsewhere when he could immediately delve into the earth my blades had been churning up.
When he takes cover at ground-level, he tends to shelter under the hibiscus shrub. The earth underneath the shrub is always in a state of apparent chaos. This is the blackbird’s doing as he rootles around in the mulch my wife has scattered there. I sit on the – very modest and old – deck and watch him go about his work. He looks up at me every so often without flinching. I am simply part of his environment and – so long as I don’t charge at him or make a lot of noise – he is quite happy with me.
I have begun talking to him, knowing he won’t understand a word I am saying. But how else can I celebrate the presence of such an industrious and discreet creature? It is a privilege to be in the presence of another relatable being in this universe, even if this presence is bemused by the bipedal ape-creature watching him.
“Good morning, blackbird”, I say. But he is too busy to engage in such niceties.
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