Common Birds 36 - American Robin 4

Wednesday, June 7

Is it a kind of grace that even an apocalypse can be beautiful? Yesterday, I realized I know how the sun and light look when somewhere on the continent is on fire. The light is orange and soft. The sun is red and dim. You can look it in the eye, eerie and alluring, otherworldly and breathtaking. Amelia said it reminds her of Charn, C.S. Lewis’s dying world with a huge, cold, red sun, the true home of the White Witch. This beautiful burning might be the best argument for the amorality of beauty, but it might be a reminder that even in this and in all deaths God is still with us.

Nevertheless, I’m glad the sky is less ominous, less portentous of doom today. On the trail, I startle a lean heron from the little kayak launch, sending it croaking and flapping out of sight. I hear the ascending song of an American redstart, look up, and see the black and orange male throwing back his head, opening his beak wide, and pouring out his favorite melody. He catches a worm on a branch and works to swallow it, beating it occasionally on the branch with a flick of his head. Then two chipmunks come tearing around the corner, one chasing the other, veering away from my legs at the last second to hide in the brush. 

Walking back to the office, just past the cattail marsh, a fight spills out of the decorative bushes which line another office building. Shockingly, a robin is pinning down a chipmunk. The chipmunk manages to squirm away, but the robin hunts it down, chasing it through the bushes, flying when it can, running when it must. The robin closes in, but the chipmunk finally escapes by running straight at me, using my bulk as a shield against the pursuing robin, beauty and violence. I’m standing between the two of them, trying to understand.