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
