BITS PIECES OF A MISPLACED LIFE or THIS BLOG IS FOR THE BIRDS

 
 BIRDS
  
        
   (The crow) is a laddo that can’t afford any gorgeousness in his feathers; all black, except for a better-off  brother who decorates his plumage of brilliant black with snow-white bands – the magpie, the cleric of the Corvidae, a dignified chap, fond of chattering as a cleric is fond of preaching.
  
 Sean O’Casey. The Green Crow (1956)
  
  
  
  
 No cånyon is too cold for this little bird, none too lonely, provided it be rich in falling water. Find a fall, or cascade, or rushing rapid, anywhere upon a clear stream , and then you would surely find its complimentary Ouzel, flitting about in the spray, diving in foaming eddies, whirling like a leaf 
 among beaten foam-balls, ever vigorous and enthusiastic, yet self-  contained, and neither seeking nor shunning your company.
  
           John Muir, describing The Water Ouzel. The Mountains of California.
 
  
  
  
 …owling requires consideration and respect for the owl. You need to channel owl empathy. Owls are wild. On their minds are three concerns: shelter, food, reproduction. Whatever calories their bodies are expending, it is to secure those needs. To survive,
  
 Mira Ptacin. “The Art and Education of Owling” 
in The New York Times (February 7, 2021)
  
  
  
  
 The other thrushes are baroque artists, constantly elaborating, reworking and adding to their showy 
repertoire. The hermit thrush is a classicist, 
working on the principle of less is more, multum 
in parvo. Constantly changing variations appear 
within a simple, firm musical framework. Complex 
chords and high overtones climb and resonate 
between the tree trunks to create a sense of 
space and depth: a song In three –no, 
four–dimensional space that seems to speak of 
eternal things.
  
 Eric Salzman, quoted in The New York Times 
obituary written by Neil Genzlinger 
(November 26, 2017) 
**

(Egg, circa 5th Century BCE Athenian cookery)

The eggs of the peacock, a rare and much admired 
bird, were claimed to be highly superior; 'fox-
goose' eggs ranked second, and hen's eggs a distant
third. The domestic hen was common in the 
Mediterranean by fifth century BC and almost every 
Athenian had one, which may explain the poor 
gastronomic rating of its eggs.

Reay Tannahill. Food in History (New York: 
Three Rivers Press, 1988)
**





      BIRD-WATCHING
         (in memory of Jack Violi)

     Black-feathered
     With a voice
     For an eye,
     Its round eye opens.
     Flared
     At the neck & high
     Among branches, its choice
     Is to widen

     Our forest. It
     Frets with color
     As a mad painter,
     Jet-blue, then brown,
     & never sits
     Still. It grows fainter
     Then sails or
     Soars, flits down

     Into a fool's spectrum.
     What fastens 
     Onto branches
     The way blackbirds do?
     Theirs is the dumb
     Motion of panic, is
     The beak that glistens
     With food. Blue-

     Black, the jackdaw thinks
     Mostly of hunger,
     Whistles its fast
     Among high branches,     
     Its grackle head shrinks
     To a thimble fist
     In fear without anger,
     Bobbing

     As a wooden duck does
     On the edge
     Of a pan. Hops,
     Flaps in a climate  
     Of nerves, air-flows'                   
     & twigs, it stops
     Only to feed, to hedge'
     The lake, to mate.

     Black birds are
     Anything but black,
     Are dark blue wiggles
     & wags, purple tails
     Jutting in air,
     Slightly invisible
     Weather vanes, then back
     To the isles

     Of branches. Their
     Universe
     Is worm-centered,
     An eye among storms.
     Flattened in air,
     They head
     North, then reverse
     To roost in swarms.

     Boat-tailed,
     The grackle chucks
     Chucks, keels
     To the wind,lights
     Treads stately, then head
     Up, wheels
     To a ribbon of black
     & sets its sight

     For water. No
     Tears for him,
     He merely adjusts
     To no avail.
     The blackbird knows
     Weather as he thrusts
     His feathers into a whim
     & sail.
      
     His head nods.
     The wind is doing some-
     Where, but what
     Flutters through branches
     Is not wind,
     But a polished flit
     Of blackbirds handsome
     As boots. The wind is

     Going somewhere,
     But what flutters
     Through the branches
     Is not wind, but grackles.

                 (1970)

**
  OF PEACOCKS & A SLOW STATELY DANCE

pavan (n.)"slow, stately dance," 1530s, from French pavane (1520s), probably from Spanish pavana, from pavo "peacock" (from Latin pavo; see peacock), in reference to the bird's courting movements. But some see an Italian origin and trace the name to Padovana "Paduan." Possibly it is a merger of two distinct dance words.
     
   from The Online Etymological Dictionary

**