Birds are Birds, Always

savannah driver

Ave

There are over 10,000 different species of birds. Over. Scientists don’t even know how many there are exactly, only that there are somewhere between 9-11,000. We can’t even comprehend how vast of a number that is. There are an estimated 50-430 billion birds alive on Earth today, right now. We can’t comprehend that number either. 41 orders, with 248 families inside each of those orders. Passeriform is the largest order of them all, containing 140 families and 6,500 individual species. Falconiform is the strangest order. Falcons and caracaras belong there, but this order is more closely related to woodpeckers and kingfishers than they are to hawks or eagles or owls. It’s all too vast. Birds are organized too well, there are too many. Too many for me to comprehend, to talk about, to know. Not that I’m complaining, though.

I made a Pinterest board titled “Oh you like birds? Name every bird. Alphabetically” and as of today, it only has 310 pins. I’m barely halfway through the “A” section. One day I’ll finish it though, and then I’ll be able to say that I know every bird. All of them. I think that living life to the fullest means knowing all ten thousand types of birds. Even the awful ones (none are awful, only the thoughts and feelings towards them are). This is a cheesy metaphor for life being something you should seize and enjoy and suck the bone marrow out of. I hate metaphors, everything should just be what it is. Birds are birds.

Accipitriform

Actually, I might love bird metaphors, especially (selfishly) ones about myself. Whenever I’m overwhelmed or feeling too many things, there’s an indescribable anger that appears and overshadows it all. Most of the time, I can’t name where it comes from, but I do know that I can't breathe and I can’t think. Harpy eagles are the world’s strongest bird. They can carry away prey half their body weight, and have a grip strength of 530 psi. That’s more than enough to crush a human’s skull, with talons as long as a grizzly bear’s. This anger feels like a harpy eagle’s talons wrapped around my ribcage, splintering it and embedding shards within my lungs.

Afterwards, when that sharp-clawed harpy eagle anger goes away, it’s replaced with how sad mourning dove songs are, with the awful crying of a loon. I’ll lay on the floor, feeling all of these awful things. Sometimes my own birds will crawl on me, and I like to believe they know how I feel, that they can have empathy. Sometimes they’ll take a sip of my tears, and then shake their heads. Too salty. I love being dramatic.

Columbiform

There are three types of birds known to produce milk. Pigeons, flamingoes, and emperor penguins. Each has a special organ in their neck, called a “crop”, which produces milk. Both parents can make it. When I learned this, it reminded me of my dad. The first meal I ever consumed was milk, sucked through a tube attached to his pinky finger while my mom was dying in the next room over. She survived, everything was fine in the end, but sometimes it makes me wonder what would have happened if it wasn’t, and if that’s the reason why my sister tells me that some of the things I do remind her of our dad. I bet that pigeon children are a perfect blend of their parents, unlike people. If everything hadn’t been okay, I can’t tell if it would have been worse to feel that sorrow and miss something I never had, or to feel absolutely nothing at all in that absence.

Ave

I love how much love ornithologists have for birds. Yes, it’s their job, but choosing words like “handsome” “gentle” “stunning” to describe them feels more like opinion than fact. I don’t blame them. I envy them, I want to feel that love and use words like handsome and stunning and gentle more often. I should. Nothing’s stopping me. I’ll practice on my birds.

Columbiform

A few months ago, I was walking around in Seattle, Washington. There were enormous silver buildings, libraries filled with millions of books, fountains and sculptures ten times my size, train-car things that followed strips of metal suspended between one place and another, restaurants that held smells I had never smelled before and would never smell again, every type of person imaginable navigating through the streets and cars and buildings. With all of this madness going on, the one thing that caught my eye was the pigeons.

There were white ones, grey ones, brown ones, ones that wore purple, green, blue, black, large ones and small ones and ones that were just average pigeon-size. They flew around the tops and sides of buildings, or waddled around with their pigeonly gait alongside the people. You could tell just by looking at them that they held no fear, held the utmost confidence in themselves. I could almost see the thoughts flocking behind their white-rimmed eyes. Where to get the next bite of food, who to poop on, who to hold grudges against, which buildings to nest on, which other pigeons to woo. Pigeons have been domesticated for over 10,000 years. They carried our messages, gave us companionship, and provided us with feathers. Pigeons were even used during the two world wars to send risky messages back and forth, saving thousands of lives. They depended on us and we depended on them, but now, we’ve abandoned them and given them the pest label. We moved on, we left them behind in the dirt. Now they’re forced to survive on their own, forced to poop on our cars as revenge, until we can earn their forgiveness.

In winter, pigeons build ramshackle nests out of twigs and trash, and huddle next to smoke-filled pipes for warmth. They preen and bathe and clean, they’re not dirty. They’re not. Walking down those Seattle roads, I told myself to feed the pigeons more often. One day I’ll domesticate one, or a few. I would take care of it, love it, and give it a little bit of myself, in exchange for a little bit of pigeon. I would give it a wonderful meaningful name, or a boring generic name. I would bring it around with me in a little pigeon purse, and we would talk about the past 10,000 years together.

Psittaciform

One of my birds is a cockatiel. Specifically, a pied pearl cockatiel. Her name is Palmetto, after the tree. She’s grumpy and snippy, but sweet when she lets you pet her head. She’s also very dumb. She’s the only bird we have who manages to fall off tables, to not know how to bathe properly. I say this lovingly. She smells like cobwebs, clean cobwebs, cobwebs with light shining through them. In my family, it has been decided, unanimously, that she has the best bird smell. We’ve also decided that we can judge people the same way, by smell. Some people smell like paper, clean sheets, condensed balls of moss, static, bubblewrap, yellow petals, bowls. Others smell like rot, old sickly-sweet fruit, spit, raw meat, mold or mildew, stale dirt. There’s nothing anyone can do to change that smell, it’s simply how it is and how it always will be. Even though it’s uncontrollable, I’m biased towards the people with the smells I like better. I almost can’t stand those types of spit or mold or decaying fruit smells.

Palmetto also enjoys eating salt. We have a salt lamp on the table, and she’ll snack on it frequently. She also enjoys chewing holes in the carpet, and the walls. When we eat dinner, she’ll knock over the saltshaker and eat all the grains that come out. I should take her advice, take more things with a grain of salt. The first time I heard that phrase, I had no idea what it meant. It made no sense. I still don’t think I fully grasp whatever it means. Doubt peoples opinions? Facts? Something to do with not fully believing people. It sounds very tiring. It sounds smart and reasonable.

Along with metaphors, I also hate sayings and things like the salt one. I don’t even know what to call them. Taking everything with a grain of salt sounds too hard, it’s too difficult to doubt everything that everyone says all the time. So I won’t, for now, and if something bad happens because of it, I’ll deal with it later. I always clean the spilled salt off the table in the end, no matter how long it takes.

Falconiform

Once, I made eye contact with a kestrel at a zoo. When I did, for a moment, everything paused and shifted. The world changed, I felt like I was in a book or a movie, I had seen the inner workings of that kestrel’s mind. I was five or six, but as soon as I met that bird’s gaze I swear I could feel its restlessness, see the thoughts behind its eyes. I wanted to set it free, I wanted to join it, I wanted to bring it home with me. I did nothing. Instead, I walked away from that little kestrel, but this memory stays as clear as day. It was perched inside a cage built inside a building. There was no sky for it to look at. The walls were faux rock, beige. The only thing stopping that kestrel from getting out was a thin layer of some sort of metal mesh. The kestrel wasn’t strong or big enough for real metal bars. It was too woodpecker-like, not enough of an eagle. Big dark eyes, brownish reddish feathers, black spots. Every day, I think about going back there. But I don’t have permission. If I could, I would rescue that kestrel, or befriend it, or help it, or talk to it, or feed it. But that chance is long gone by now. Kestrels only live up to 10 years (5 in the wild).

Passeriform

Cardinals, starlings, and blue jays are mean. Especially to northern flickers; blue jays enjoy chasing them away. I wish I could be mean. I wish I could be mean, easily, without guilt. Not even mean, I just want to be able to tell the people I don’t want to be around to fuck off and I want to make decisions without considering the other person first. I want to do this and I want to feel nothing when doing it. I want it to feel like sitting in the woods. I can’t blame blue jays or cardinals for being mean. I want to be able to do things, anything, without that feeling of needing to ask permission first. I don’t need to ask. I’m good at holding back tears, until someone says I’m allowed not to. I have a drawing of a blue jay that I didn’t create as my phone’s lock-screen, and his name is Sturgeon, named after the full moon he was created under. Blue jays are assholes, but I love them for it.

Psittaciform

Two of our birds have babies we sell. We gave one of them to Ivy, the art teacher at my old middle school. At that middle school, I would have to stay late at the end of the day, since my parents had to work. There were other kids left at school too, but they were too loud, chaotic, and tiring. I needed an escape. When Ivy went home, she always left her classroom unlocked, and in the back, there was a closet. It was small, coated in harsh cement, but there was also a box of tarps and blankets. They were covered in dirt and mold smell, so I didn’t use them, but they were there. More shelves lined the walls, but these ones held obscure items, fun items. Throughout my days spent in that closet, I took pieces of it home with me, pieces of that momentary peace. Inside, there was one harsh light fixed to the center of the ceiling, flitting over old calendar pages containing painted birds, broken metal statues of babies, wooden spools with shiny gold string wound around them, sheets of plasticy fuzzy paper, plastic bins filled with wooden poles, a tube of beads, a red painted clock, smushed dirty socks, a collection of rocks, a taxidermy pheasant seated next to a taxidermy coyote, a tangled up mobile, old sticks of melted hot glue, and more. The floor was cold and grey, but marred with red and orange and yellow paint. I never had to touch any of that though. I sat in a little wooden chair I had made myself, depicting a chaotic scene of flames eating up all of the wood. Now that chair sits in my garage, surrounded by far more boring things, collecting bugs and dust and age. Abandoned, just like pigeons. Or given away to someone or something else, just like baby lovebirds.

Passeriform

One crow for sorrow

Two for mirth

Three for a wedding

Four for a birth

Five for silver

Six for gold

Seven for a secret not to be told

Eight for a wish

Nine for a kiss

Ten bring a message you must not miss

Eleven for health

Twelve for wealth

Thirteen beware it’s the devil himself.

I think about this poem every time I see a crow. Once, I saw five of them, and found a hundred dollars on the counter that very same day. It came from somewhere, probably from selling one of the lovebirds, but I like to believe they came from the crows. One crow appears, I end up crying. Two bring something I can find joy in. Five or six bring something of value. Four means something new, thirteen brings something terrible. I can’t dislike crows, I know too much about them, and it’s difficult to hate what you know, but seeing the ill numbers worries me. Sometimes I see a crow stretching its wings the same way my birds do. All birds are birds. They’re good problem solvers. If crows have a nut they can’t crack, they’ll throw it in the road and wait for a car to break it open and expose the meat. I can’t tell if this prophecy poem is true or not, but I’ve decided I can make it true, I can make it self-fulfilling, regardless. If two bring mirth, I will find something I can wring joy out of, no matter what.

Passeriform

Whenever I’m out and about with someone and there are birds, I hear them and I know what they are. Ask me what bird that is. They’re so loud. Most of the time, the people I’m with don’t notice or don’t care. I don’t mind, but the bird songs get stuck in my head. Sometimes they get too loud in there, and I just want someone, anyone, to ask me what bird that is. That’s a chickadee. Okay. Next conversation. Or sometimes there’s nothing at all. I don’t know what I’m looking for here. Ask me what bird that is. I know what it is. Please. Chickadees are scratchy, and say their name, unless they’re singing, then the scratchy part goes away, and it’s closer to a pleasant flute. Song sparrows sound like chickadees but without the name. Robins and mourning doves and cardinals all have that same sad tone - very back of the throat-y and smooth and soft. Tufted titmice sound like gravel being stirred together. Blue jays make gentle screams. Nuthatches sound like they’re gargling water or murmuring evil plans. Crows caw caw caw. What kind of bird is that? That’s a crow, you don’t know what crows sound like? Look, there’s a pigeon over there. No, that’s a mourning dove. Oh, I don’t really care. No, please, just ask me what bird that is.

Charadiiform

I feel bad for seagulls. I don’t understand why they’re hated. People say they’re noisy. I say ignore them. They say they eat trash. I say they’re hungry. But they’re dirty. Then don’t touch them. I like feeding seagulls pizza crust. I love seeing flocks of seagulls with baby seagulls, trying to learn how to become good birds. The babies are all clumsy, and love laying down and napping. They have dark grey feathers, and as they get older, the feathers turn into white adult feathers. The adults take good care of them, feeding them before they eat and passing down all the bird knowledge they contain. Usually, the babies seem to be larger than the adults, but that’s only a defense mechanism and fluffed-up feathers. I hate the nickname sky rats. I hate that it’s an insult. Unlike pigeons, seagulls don’t depend on people, aren’t domesticated, so I won’t domesticate one, but I will not insult them. They don’t seem to care either way about the insults, though. Much. I envy them a little bit. If I were a bird, I’d like to join a flock of seagulls. I’ve been seeing a lot more of them recently. One of my friends drew a flock of them for me, and I put it on my wall, next to all of the other birds I cut out of a stolen bird guide. I like to believe that the drawing summoned them all to me.

Passeriform

Robins aren’t actually robins, they’re thrushes. They’re only called robins because a sad homesick British man thought they looked like European robins for the red chest, and the name ended up sticking to them. Their scientific name is turdus migratorius. Migrating turd. Poor turd birds, given the wrong name and the worst name. They belong to the thrush family, while European robins belong to the old world flycatcher family.

A few years ago, our cat caught a robin. It was cornered under a bush, but I dragged the cat away and locked her inside. I held the robin, cupped in my hands. It was still alive, panting in shock, but it seemed okay, for the most part. I gave it to my mom so she could hold it up higher in case it flew away. The robin had a wound on its chest. Blood covered my hands. It smelled like dirt and iron. I went inside to wash out the blood, and missed it flying away. I still can’t stand the feeling of anything touching my hands. I hope that sad old British man got to see his European robins again. I told one of my old teachers this robin story, and he compared me to Macbeth. “Out! Out, damn spots!” I told him it wasn’t my fault, I helped save it, I didn’t hurt it. He told me my crime was owning the cat. Every year, 2 billion birds are killed by cats. I had bird blood on my hands. I am not a cat person. I hate touching things.

Accipitriform

When I was too young to know anything, my family went to an avian show. There was a woman who was showing off all of her raptors, and the last bird she brought out was a turkey vulture. She asked for a volunteer to hold it, and I raised my hand. She picked me. She shouldn’t have. I held the turkey vulture, but it was too heavy, and it scared me. I flinched, and the bird lady got mad at me. I got mad at her right back for picking me. I shouldn’t have raised my hand. I didn’t hold the grudge against either of them. Turkey vultures awe me, the way they soar and how light shines through only some of their wing feathers. They’re excellent composters, and they’ve mastered the art of thriving off of death. They would make better omens of death than crows or ravens, especially with the bald head that looks like they’ve already started decaying. I’ve had a lot of turkey vulture dreams, and in all of them I could understand how turkey vultures worked, physically and mentally. My grudge against them is long gone.

Psittaciform

The first time I was ever truly heartbroken was when one of our lovebirds, Ocean, died. She was our first lovebird. She loved cuddling in robes, mimicking noises and sounds she liked, and flipping over her water dish whenever she was angry. We buried her outside in the backyard, in a box full of bells and millet and other things she liked. A few months later, large, leafy plants the same color as her green feathers sprouted behind her grave, spreading through the yard. We let them be.

That showed me the impermanence of everything, that memories can physically hurt and bring back those rib-crushing harpy eagles. A few years later, our other lovebird, Pacific, died too. We buried him next to Ocean. By this time, we also had other lovebirds, cockatiels, and a conure. Months after we buried Pacific, one of the lovebird babies hatched, and he looked just like Pacific. He couldn’t fly, it took him months and months longer than it should have. Around the same time he was born, Pacific’s grave marker disappeared. We like to say that Pacific traded his wings to come back in the form of flightless baby Richard. That the turkey vulture of death carried him away, until he struck a bird bargain and convinced it to let him go back in exchange for his wings. Well, his ability to use them, anyway. This was impermanence, but this was also unexplainable happenstance (coincidence? miracle?). I would like to believe that death is a gentle turkey vulture scooping up souls with its talons, making bargains with sad birds. Bird camaraderie. Birds are birds, always. Until they start evolving again. Or go extinct.

Savannah Driver is a creative writing Junior at Interlochen Arts Academy in Traverse City, MI. She writes poems, short stories, and plays.