Seeing ourselves in the birds that do — and don't — flock together
It was like a flashback from two years ago.
In the days after my husband’s death, a cloud of black birds landed in my yard. I don’t know if they were technically “blackbirds," but they were big, black and ominous. Those “bleak December” birds reminded me of ravens and the dark words of Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t like those birds in my yard then, and I don’t like them in my yard now.
“Nevermore!”
These creatures fly in flocks or herds or clusters or cults — whatever it is you call bird gangs that travel together. I just know these black birds are everywhere. Hundreds of them pecking in my yard, squawking in my trees, haunting my waking hours.
Just like they did two years ago.
I am not bird smart; however, I do have a bird feeder I fill to entice pretty birds, colorful birds, and singing birds. I watch over the birds that land in my feeder, which are not anything like the birds that landed in my yard. Caw!
On the highway to my mother’s house, the birds are everywhere. They dip and dive, swoop and swirl in a mysterious cloud of movement and motion. Up ahead, there is spilled grain on the side of the highway, and the swarm lands to feast.
Then, a car would drive by and the flock would leave, only to land and leave, land and leave, over and over and over. That meant when you drove by that highway spot, you drove through a constant cluster of flying feathers.
Then, on to wash your car.
I watched these birds of a feather who more than flock together, and asked out loud who the heck was in charge.
As the feathered fowls flurried overhead, they followed a pace and pattern that was wild with beauty and obviously well-practiced. There were so many birds trying to keep up that I wondered whether the bird in front ever checked on the ones in the back? Or if the leader ever listened to the squawks around him? Or noticed the ones that never rest because nothing ever changes?
Does any of this sound familiar?
Perhaps the human race is more bird-like than I thought. Only heavy fliers are chosen to lead and, once they win, we buckle up and wait for promises to be kept. We float, we fly, we follow in ways we might not agree with to places we might not want to go.
Still we keep going, allowing leaders to squawk and peck at one another instead of changing course and creating a flight path to a better world.
Sometimes, birds of a feather don’t want to flock together.
All those odd thoughts go through my head as I watch the swarm of black birds perch in my trees and land in my yard, covering it in caws and crows and cloudy memories. So before the birds could weigh me down, I opened the door and ran outside, spreading my wings — I mean my arms — and screeching like an owl.
I was a wild woman, swooping through the cold air, flapping and flinging my wings and making noises I didn’t know I could make. I am tired of creatures who are full of gripey squeaks and squawks, and I am leery of their leaders who peck and preach at one another. I am wary of where they are going, how they will get there, and who, or what, they will leave behind.
Maybe what the bird world needs are more cuckoos like me who flock together and say “no more.” Maybe then, feathered friends could fly and feed and find a place of peace and plenty. A place far away from the crazy woman with the scary hair who runs around her yard, flapping her arms and screaming like a banshee who thinks she can fly.
Pretty sure that’s how the neighbors see it.
You can reach Lorry at lorrysstorys@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on Columbia Daily Tribune: Seeing ourselves in the birds that do — and don't — flock together
