Ajijaakwe: The Day of the Birds

For us, today was the Day of the Birds.

They began arriving early, in ones and twos, some our fellow residents, some almost never seen here.

A northern flicker, the red-shafted variant, who would be expected to arrive about now anyway . . . but he and a few of his clan broke with tradition over the past year and stayed with us year-round. This is the male, one of a pair, but the pair whose images I captured earlier this year; these two are young, barely mature and much smaller.

He arrived on the tallest latilla pole shortly after full sunup. He didn't stay there long — just enough for me to capture one image — but he appeared with his wife later this afternoon, giving me a few more shots of his autumnal featherwork.

The highlight of the day arrived shortly thereafter to join me at morning prayers. I never saw him land, but at the point that I reached the spot where I burn cedar every morning, he had quietly settled in only a matter of yards distant, across the east field.

My first thought was that it was my red-tailed girl, but no: This hawk was easily as larger, but with a striped mask across golden-yellow eyes and a barred tail. A ferruginous hawk, one listed as "near-threatened," and one that, while it ostensibly makes it home in these lands year-round, rarely allows itself to be seen.

Today, he not only permitted a viewing, but waited patiently while I completed my prayers, waited longer while I returned my bundle and retrieved my camera, waited still longer while I took shot after shot, allowing me within a scant few yards before swooping groundward and then soaring up to the cottonwood across the road.

At midday, Wings called me outside to tell me that the glossy ibises, those Gulf Shore spirits who paid us a visit just over a month ago for the first and only time, had returned. As it turns out, they were not the same pair; like the flickers, these elegant water birds were very young, very small.

They were also skittish, more so than their predecessors, staying only a short period of time . . . but long enough to go wading with some of our chickens. When they felt nervous, they huddled together in a cross-billed embrace, finding solace and strength in each other's bills and bodies.

They were joined by birds that had been fluttering around all day, yet never really landing: to the rest of the world, Brewer's blackbirds; in my language, simply "those who gather."

They, too, are skittish, casting their golden eyes warily upon all comers. Occasionally, however, they will sit still long enough to permit a group photo . . . and occasionally, an image of one taking flight.

For days, the sunflower patch on the west side, the largest we have ever had, has been lit with sun and song: delicate clear bell-like notes, from tiny spirits unwilling to show their faces to the world.

Today, one finally gave me an opportunity to capture his silhouette, if not his face — a tiny goldfinch, a bird not seen here for a half-dozen years or so, and then only in single pairs. This year, they have returned en masse, but already wear their winter garb.

Atop my gnarled little tree at the south end, a single iridescent black-billed magpie surveyed the land. This is his domain, as much as it is anyone's; indigenous to the land, he and his live here year-round, in great numbers. They raise their children here, generation after generation, maintaining and sustaining a life that is fully a part of this place.

Where I am from, they are white-fronted ravens, cedar birds and juniper birds identified with the trees where they make their homes, masterpieces of avian architecture. Here, they are fully-fledged family members, invited to share in food and water and shelter and fellowship. They are protective of the chickens against Coyote, they stalk my footsteps in the morning, demanding to be fed, the chatter and argue and gossip and mock from their perches and soar up and down upon the currents, small dancers in pleated shawls of black and white.

In recent days, the larger raptors have returned, among them the turkey vultures. They tend to roost across the road, in the tops of the cottonwoods that line the river, seated like bold sentries facing outward to the four directions. They soar so high that it's often difficult to get a close image, even with a zoom; still, the telltale arch of their wings and the upturned tips of their feathers give away their identity, even to those of us bound to earth far below.

This one departed from his clan's great swooping circles, striking off temporarily on his own. Occasionally, he will fly directly overhead, following a slow looping path that allows him almost to hover, scarlet face turned toward the land around me. He shows no signs of wanting anything here, at least nothing more than companionship, fellowship, a momentary communication between the beat of his wings and my upturned lens.

These days, the Eurasian collared doves are as much a part of the geography here as their distant magpie cousins. They are not native to this place, not even to this continent, but they were brought here by force some four decades ago, and loosed upon the land. They are hardy birds, by turns skittish and territorial, and it has served them well in this new and foreign land.

It is difficult to tell them apart, although less so in winter, when the female doves don earthier dress. By August, they were already switching out their robes, another sign of likely early snows. Even now, they show signs of seasonal preparation, spending far more time at the feeder than in recent months. They are romantic creatures, the males openly pursuing potential mates, pouting up their neck feathers into magnificent gray ruffs while engaging in their traditional three-step dance. Once paired, the lovebirds fly together, roost together, and on days like this, the male feeds and grooms his mate.

Of course, a day of visitations would now seem incomplete without the presence of my grandfather. Most call him American kestrel, but in our way, he is a smaller sort of marsh hawk, the bird who shares his name with my great-grandfather, gone now more than a century, yet newly alive in my writing of late.

For much of the summer, a more ordinary marsh hawk would appear occasionally, soaring high overhead, hovering occasionally just long enough for me to catch a glimpse, and occasionally, a photographic image. Over the last few weeks, however, he has been succeeded by the kestrel, a bird indigenous to this land who has not been seen here in a half-dozen years . . . until now. He only comes on days when I particularly need solace or strength of spirit. I had not seen him for a few days, and assumed that he would not appear, but late this afternoon, out in the field with Wings where he dug post holes for a length of fence, the tiny falcon returned.

Wings now calls him, simply, "Grandpa," but the man whose spirit he embodies holds far too powerful a place in my mind and soul; I cannot conceive of addressing him so informally. He is Grandfather, and mostly in the old tongue, at that. And on a day marked by visitors and visitants, by visitations of so many varied spirits, to see him at the end was a final gift. I have no doubt, however, that it was he who sent all the others ahead of his own appearance. And I know that he sent each with a message, a special gift of spirit that we will need to open, to untie and untangle and decipher and put into practice.

The Day of the Birds is only the beginning.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Ajijaakwe

Monday, September 7, 2015

The Day of the Birds

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