Backyard Birds

In the backyard newly truncated by the addition of a garage I want to tackle weeds but find a grown male sparrow on the ground I meant to work. The quarrel of sparrows I maintain with water and seed normally fly when I approach. “I’m the one who feeds you, you know,” I tell them, offended.

This boy does not move, his wings awry, his head bent and eyes closed, his undercoat of gray ruffled. “Are you sick?” I ask. He tilts his head, hops away laboriously. Not wanting to cause more stress, I detour to the front yard—where weeds also thrive—but am already composing a story.

Boy Sparrow Stressed

He’s that male sparrow I saw last summer, madly dancing and singing to get a female’s attention without success. He often perched in the beauty bush alone, so unlike his tribe, who react with one mind—all at the feeder, all flying to the beauty bush, all bedding down for the night in tandem. He’s that one lovelorn sparrow.

Raven is another story. Raven or crow? Male or female? I call her Raven because she came alone and crows usually travel in murders—quarrel of sparrows, murder of crows—with much flapping and noise. This one was silent. The first time I saw her wide black glide into the yard, she came to rest on the half-empty birdbath. Sparrows delight in splashing it out so I have to refill it. Raven had half a well-done hamburger patty in her beak. No doubt dry and tough as tire rubber. She hopped onto the bath rim and dropped the prize in, then proceeded to peck it apart and eat.

Raven having a burger

When I went to look after she’d gone, not a crumb of meat remained, although the water was a bit murky. Channeling the sparrows and chickadees, Marilyn said, “hmm, beef soup. We don’t often have that.”

Meanwhile, Boy sparrow has tried, season after season, and now younger, stronger males outdo him. One has pecked his wing so severely it no longer works. This yard is the place he grew up, where he’s always felt comfortable. This beauty bush is safe haven from the hawk. He hobbles to the water dish on the ground, but then sits, immobile, as if reaching it took all his strength and he cannot muster the energy to drink.

Yet when I return to look for him, he flutters up to the fence. He can fly. Maybe he’s not injured, I revise. Maybe he has a dreaded bird flu, highly contagious. He’s doing his best, has always done his best to stay away from the crowd, not wanting to infect others. That’s why he’s always alone. It’s a sad life, being the leper in a society that only values togetherness. No one understands him. Females shun him.

Later I see him on the ground under the birdfeeder, picking at what others have dropped, his movements measured, unlike the fast flutter of his fellows. A few flies hover around him, even alight on his askew wings.

Kathleen Cain is my authority in nature matters, particularly those pertaining to birds and trees. Recently I saw a post about cottonwood pollen that I knew wasn’t correct. Where’s Kathleen Cain when you need her? I thought, and a moment later, there she was, saying that white fluff contains seeds from the female tree, not pollen. An appeal to Kathleen produces instant information: Wild Bird Rescue & Rehab, and a list of instructions on how to handle injured birds.

But when I return to the yard, our valiant boy is back on the fence, lifts off and arcs over to the crabapple across the alley, demonstrating again that flies or no flies, he can still take to the air.

A few days after the burger, Raven had a chicken wing. Not a wing! We don’t have dumpsters in the alley any more: where’s she get this stuff? Much pecking and tearing ensued. Later I found only a small clean bone and pale grease swirled atop the water.

I was tiring of Raven’s dining habits, or rather of having to clean up after her, but once garage construction began, she disappeared, as did finch, chickadee and the occasional robin. I thought everyone would take a hint, but not sparrows and squirrels, who came and went as usual, blithely ignoring workmen. The roofer said, “those little birds think I’m in their way.” “Ah, the sparrows,” I apologized. “They are spoiled.”

But not my poor boy who’s had a solitary life, never managing to fit in, never finding that one true love. I haven’t seen him again since he flew to the crabapple, though I have watched for him. Perhaps, like most of his kind, he’s choosing a solitary, hidden death. Perhaps he’s healing and will try for love again.

As for Raven, I hope she finds someplace else to rinse her fast food.