Our little backyard with giant oak tree, weeping cherry, gorgeous
hydrangeas, rangy acubas and killer forsythia draws birdsong in the morning,
cardinals and mockingbirds and the childhood-memory stir of rackety blue jays,
who scatter the others like a playground bully.
We’ve never had an American Redstart. In fact, M and I hadn’t even heard
the phrase until we talked to a birder in Prospect Park.
It’s one of the reasons I love living in Brooklyn. During the spring
migration season, exotic-looking birds and their Two Foot scholars become part
of the scenery in our nearby park.
One day we saw a bird with a flash of brilliant orange. Initially we both
thought oriole, which we have spotted on the rare occasion. But it wasn’t
orange-breasted, more an underwing and wing, tail feather orange. Brighter.
Say, mixed with carrot.
That’ll be an American Redstart, a birder said.
Rings like a story title, doesn’t it? Or the hint of a poem.
Next: Running for Your Life: Waking to
the Wedding March
1 comments:
Childhood memories indeed my friend. Now you have me reminiscing about all of the various winged wildlife that we used to get in our old neighbourhood up there by the Mill Dam, and all of their different morning songs that would ring out. But, of course, the strong CAW CAW of the big black crows and the cackling of the starlings always seem to win out. Do you remember that my friend ... do you? Lol That bush on the hill between your place and mine was a virtual bird sanctuary.
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