dem little wings is on da boid
Thursday, 5 May 2005 09:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freckles_and_doubtThere's a big tree in our back courtyard, which since we moved in has been clinging precariously to life and limb with whatever trees use for fingernails. It's not very healthy - large dead patches all over, and some sort of weird discoloured virus on its leaves. However, this last Year of Hell-Weather appears to have been right up its strange, Entish alley, since in the last couple of months it has blossomed madly into, well, blossoms, and then little purplish fruit. Masses of little purplish fruit. Whole stonkloads of little purplish fruit that are (a) dropped enthusiastically over the back yard, where they squish under my bare feet (I never wear shoes in the house, unless it's cold and I'm in Furry Hobbit-Foot slippers, thank you Stace) and (b) a devilish attractant for what seems to be the entire bird population of the Cape Peninsula.
This is, in fact, madly entertaining. Waking up in this house now gives me, in terms of bird-wittering levels, flashbacks to the Highveld, which has a much larger bird population than the Cape. At any time during the day the tree is the site of squabbles, flutterings, twitterings, squawks, whistles, avian acrobatics, and the occasional dull "thud" as some particularly maladjusted birdbrain flies into a window. Mostly it's whole flocks of white-eyes, who are, as I think I've posted before, dull green and mad-staring-eyed, and who flip themselves around in secret formations like an ineptly-co-ordinated airborne clockwork army. We also have a nice selection of starlings, uniformly svelte and elegant little creatures - mostly the European variety, including the attractively-speckled females. The currichaine thrushes from the front lawn also drift in and out, which is odd as I don't think they eat fruit; they tend to lurk on the sidelines looking distant and snooty. And on one occasion a sunbird showed up, causing the whole neighbourhood to erupt into the avian equivalent of whistles, cat-calls and the odd lobbed half-brick, in the typical reaction of a bunch of low-lifers to high-class glitzy fashion-wear badly out of context. The cats sit on the ground underneath, pretending slit-eyed cool, and being sworn at in Bird while they mentally revolve the possibilities of Heath Robinson contraptions for getting up there.
I have acquired an ancient copy of Roberts's Birds of Southern Africa, the birding bible on which I was raised, in a house notable for my father's dedicated falconry and general bird-mania. Currently my bird-identification skills are at the level of failing to find anything which resembles the bird I've just seen on what is probably the relevant page two hours after the mysterious feathered stranger has actually left. In particular, there's one small, enigmatic, rather shy little bird who I keep catching in the act of eyeing me from inside a bush; it's slim, dapper, discreet, and devoid of significantly memorable markings. Possibly it's actually a remote camera drone from whichever Evil Overlord I've annoyed this week. Either way, I can't find it in the bird book.
I am, frankly, surprised to realise the levels of pleasure which the whole scene is giving me. I am clearly imprinted.
This is, in fact, madly entertaining. Waking up in this house now gives me, in terms of bird-wittering levels, flashbacks to the Highveld, which has a much larger bird population than the Cape. At any time during the day the tree is the site of squabbles, flutterings, twitterings, squawks, whistles, avian acrobatics, and the occasional dull "thud" as some particularly maladjusted birdbrain flies into a window. Mostly it's whole flocks of white-eyes, who are, as I think I've posted before, dull green and mad-staring-eyed, and who flip themselves around in secret formations like an ineptly-co-ordinated airborne clockwork army. We also have a nice selection of starlings, uniformly svelte and elegant little creatures - mostly the European variety, including the attractively-speckled females. The currichaine thrushes from the front lawn also drift in and out, which is odd as I don't think they eat fruit; they tend to lurk on the sidelines looking distant and snooty. And on one occasion a sunbird showed up, causing the whole neighbourhood to erupt into the avian equivalent of whistles, cat-calls and the odd lobbed half-brick, in the typical reaction of a bunch of low-lifers to high-class glitzy fashion-wear badly out of context. The cats sit on the ground underneath, pretending slit-eyed cool, and being sworn at in Bird while they mentally revolve the possibilities of Heath Robinson contraptions for getting up there.
I have acquired an ancient copy of Roberts's Birds of Southern Africa, the birding bible on which I was raised, in a house notable for my father's dedicated falconry and general bird-mania. Currently my bird-identification skills are at the level of failing to find anything which resembles the bird I've just seen on what is probably the relevant page two hours after the mysterious feathered stranger has actually left. In particular, there's one small, enigmatic, rather shy little bird who I keep catching in the act of eyeing me from inside a bush; it's slim, dapper, discreet, and devoid of significantly memorable markings. Possibly it's actually a remote camera drone from whichever Evil Overlord I've annoyed this week. Either way, I can't find it in the bird book.
I am, frankly, surprised to realise the levels of pleasure which the whole scene is giving me. I am clearly imprinted.
