Common Birds XXV - Belted Kingfisher
Friday, May 12
My eyes hold a dazzling richness of birds, more than I can give away. At the back door, a male and female cardinal sweep into the juniper hedges, announcing that they are still beautiful notwithstanding the arrival of their rose-breasted grosbeak kin. Towards the steam, the baby squirrels I’ve discovered in a tree cavity poke out their sleepy, curious faces to watch me walk by. I hope I make their day as they make mine. Tiny chipping sparrows mix with robins and catbirds in the grass by the stream's edge. Baltimore orioles sing between the parking lots insular trees.
On the trail, catbirds hang out by the pond's edge. Robins rustle through the thicket. I see a bird with an orange breast and white-barred, black wings lose me in the honeysuckle. Probably a towhee, but I couldn’t get a good enough look. I stand by the pond and see a blue bird with broad wings sweep into the branches of the huge pine: a belted kingfisher. Its back, wings, and head are gray-blue coming to a jagged crest, its bill long, black, pointed. Both chin and breast are white, and it’s encircled by a ‘belt’ or burnt orange. The kingfisher unleashes a quick, chattering call. A weight of English Romantic poetry rests on the kingfisher’s shoulders, inherited from the brighter kingfishers of England. This particular kingfisher, of course, feels none of that heaviness, only the warmth of the sun and a longing for the fish that live beneath the slowly waving water. I watch it for a long while until it falls and swoops low over the water and out of sight.
I head for the outlet of the marsh which is quickly becoming one of my most beloved places. Two flickers flush from the forest floor. Song sparrows sing, and I manage to spot two, perched warbling vireos. One of them rubs its beak against a branchlet like my cat, Buckets, rubs his face against my leg, one side then the other, though the vireo pulls his head back instead of pushing it forward like Buckets. A little further in the trees, a shockingly orange oriole feeds on buds.
Eventually, I emerge from my bird induced reverie to see a male human approaching me from the direction of I-93. He’s wearing gray slacks and a white, button-up shirt. I head back to work, trying to seem as normal as possible, but a male American redstart catches my eye, and redstarts are so beautiful I get out my monocular anyway and deal with looking like a weirdo. He has a dark black head and back, a white belly, and accents of orange on his wings, tail, and breast. The first time I saw one in St. Regis Falls, NY I thought it was a butterfly.
Thank you, birds, thank you, spring, thank you, Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, for these rich gifts. I will do my best to re-gift them to you. Like all wealth, it will grow and accumulate; sowing your attention generously will reap generously. Long have I desired the talent for inspiring others to care about those things which are precious to me. At Easter, I realized that birds have been my most successful attempt. One of my cousins asked, “how did Austin turn my whole family into bird people?” I hope it has a little to do with my joy and love, but I think it really says more about birds than it does about me. They’re just wonderful, these little ubiquitous presences which may bless any moment with the fullness of life.
