For the Birds!

 

I see the two ladies, armed linked, still as can be, blocking our path, before I spy what they’re watching. And they must be watching something. They are rapt. Motionless.

            Dusk is quickly enveloping us here on Thanksgiving Day in the Wildcat Canyon. The air is crisp and still; the light is darkening to greys and oranges, the top of the highest hills have just lost their golden sunshine.

            I’m in a rush to get back. I am tired and achy. Not sure why. Maybe I need new shoes? But when we come upon the Watching Ladies, I stop.  Ian pulls up alongside me.

            They must be watching something, but I sure as hell don’t see anything. Of course, like I mentioned, dusk is on the move, so the path’s murky light dims my vision.

            Then we see it. Oh, so cute! A tiny little grey bird, flicking dirt all over itself, wallowing into a small hole it has created. At first, I think maybe it’s injured. It’s so spastic. I glance over at the ladies, “Is it okay?”

            They giggle in unison. “Oh, yes, it is fine. It is taking a dirt bath. That is all!”

            “Ahh….” I nod, “I haven’t seen that before. It’s really cute!”

            “Yes, it is cute!” one of them agrees, her eye twinkling over her mask. Even in the gathering darkness, I can see she’s delighted. Obviously; otherwise, they wouldn’t have stopped here to gaze in wonder at nature’s tiny bath for the locals.

            We try to step quietly, gingerly,  to sneak by the little guy, but he’s either through with his bath, or we startled him. Off he flies, flitting over the dirt path and into the brush.

            “Ohhh….” I cry, “we chased him away.”

            “It is okay,” one of the ladies says, “it will come back.”

            “Or maybe he’s dirty enough?” I offer, giggling.

            They laugh, “Yes….”

            We march on, pausing every once in a while to listen to the “Whooo whoooo who who whoooo,” echoing through the canyon.

            “Ian!” I exclaim. “Do you hear that?”

            “Yup, that’s the Great Horned Owl.”

            “Isn’t it cool?” The echoing calls continue, mysterious conversations in the twilight.

            “Yes, it is. They are having a conversation.”
            “What do you think they’re saying?”

            “Oh,” Ian chuckles and since I can’t remember what he said,  I’m making this dialogue up: “They are probably talking about their day and the night ahead. You know, ‘Yeah, I had a pretty lazy day. I only caught one small mouse and it was not satisfying at all.’”

            “’Well, then, you better work all night to make up for your slim pickings during the day!’”

            I crack up. Ian is so funny. He goes on to talk about the owls and how they are always flying on a mission. They have a destination.

            “Don’t all birds have a destination?” I ask.

            “Well, you see some birds and they seem to be just flying willy nilly back and forth. But not the Great Horned. They have a definite purpose in mind when they take flight.”

            I nod, okay, thinking of all the cute animals that could fall prey to this definite purpose. Nature is harsh this way. It doesn’t take into consideration the cuteness of the animals. They are the prey or they are the predator. That’s it, right?

            Kinda like people?

            I suppose you could categorize people this way. Either people prey upon others, take advantage of others’ weaknesses, or people are the prey, falling under the heavy hammer of the predator. Like the Great Recession Banking situation where the Evil Posers offered innocent, naïve and desperate folks unbelievably low mortgage rates only to have these ‘balloon’ in a short amount of time, causing the ‘prey’ to lose their homes. Predators: Prey. Business in America.

            

            I see another little bird up ahead, doing his dirt bath thing. I pause in mid-step, grabbing Ian’s arm: “Look, another bather!”

            We stand for a moment, watching in silence as the sweet little thing flails about in the dirt.

            I hear another “WHOOO WHOOO WHOOO…..” and shiver.

            “Let’s go,” I pull Ian away. “I don’t want to witness any nature slaying.”

            “I don’t think you would, but sure we can go…” Ian gets my natural inclination to leap to the worse case scenario. Esp when I’m tired, hungry and bathroom deprived. (They’re closed cuz of the Pandemic---a real hardship for me, but this is off the track of the story…)

            I can’t shake the image of a Great Horned Owl swooping down and scooping up this precious little guy. Yet, I know Ian is right. A Great Horned would wait till we’re gone.

            This makes me even sadder!

            We arrive at the car, Ian beeps the lock, another walker passes us with her dog and wishes us a good night.

            I climb into the car, every muscle aching, and sigh. It’s all for the birds, isn’t it? I hear a final "WHOO WHOO WHOO WHO WHO" as I close the door and Ian starts the engine.