The day opened with promises of blue skies and cheerful bluebirds, all day long. How does that song go? "Blue skies smiling at me. Nothing but blue skies do I see. Never saw the sun shining so bright. Never saw things going so right."
It reminded me of something P.G. Wodehouse wrote about glorious mornings and how they flatter mountaintops. I can’t recall the exact words—pretty highbrow stuff—but I couldn’t have put it better myself. Of course, one must always budget for the weather, so the key is to enjoy yourself when you can. You never know when some cocky politician will come along and mess things up.
Armed with birdseed, I headed outside to greet the day—and the birds, who were already busy greeting it themselves.
Mimi, a perky Mockingbird, is my morning companion. She alights on the fence near enough for me to touch, then fixes me with her inquisitive eye. I place the feed atop the fence rail, and she follows me as I move along. She nibbles here and there but seems more interested in watching me.
I chat with her as we go, and she tilts her head, side to side as if wondering why I don’t have a song like hers. Maybe she’s studying my voice, planning to mock me later. Who knows what runs through a bird’s mind?
Eventually, Chester, a jaunty, self-important, and perpetually suspicious Blue Jay—spots us. Chester fancies himself the head of wildlife security and takes it upon himself to monitor all forest activity. He seems to think Mimi is up to something, though what he suspects, I can’t imagine, but security types like Chester don’t need probable cause.
As soon as he sees us, he sounds the alarm, screeching as if the house is on fire. Mimi flees, along with every other bird within earshot. Chester puffs up with pride and perches victoriously on the fence, basking in his success.
It’s better for him to feel satisfied; otherwise, he calls an emergency 'Council of Birds,' which leads to high-decibel accusations and wildly bizarre conspiracy theories.
The council inevitably disperses once the birds realize Chester’s crisis is just more of his self-important bluster. Unfortunately, birds seem to have short memories because the charade replays every morning like clockwork.
The backyard comes alive again once I finish my chores. Mimi returns, along with Chester (still smug), the squirrel circus, and the Mourning Dove choir—the Sisters of the Order of Brunswick. The doves rarely partake in the goodies, presumably fasting to set an example for the ever-rowdy squirrels.
By evening, as the sun dips below the treetops and casts a golden glow on the backyard, Chester can be seen perched atop the old dead tree at the forest’s edge, surveying his “secured” and "safe" domain. The early evening quiet is unremarkable, but Chester takes pride in it. I imagine him puffing out his chest and muttering, “Better safe than sorry.”
You might think I have an overactive imagination, but if you were here to experience the day with me, I have no doubt you'd agree with my assessment. Bird psychology is just as easy to understand as human psychology. If it looks like a self-important Blue Jay and sounds like a self-important Blue Jay... etc., etc.