Two groups of Canada geese once demonstrated undisciplined sort of precision flying for me. Honking encouragement, orders, advice, they labored across the sky, apparently leaving their picnics in the countryside for their sleeping places on the river. They shifted their formation constantly—the first group came in waves, with the geese in the rear lines, like foam on an ocean wave, spilling to the front, only to be replaced after a few moments by the section that had been overtaken and was now eager to retake the lead. Meanwhile, the surging U-shape of the second group straightened into a long single line that snaked east until, like skaters playing “crack the whip,” the flyers on one end came abreast of the leaders and then pushed ahead, pulling the line north to merge with the first group, which had slowed, until the two groups of geese finally formed the expected V, though it was a fluid and ever-changing one. The geese made formations but with a vibrancy that mocked the clockwork precision of a military squadron, a discipline the geese cannot match—that they have no interest in. With their comic honks, their unclean lines, their sometimes clumsy flapping, their breasts made golden by the lowering sun, they were intensely alive, forming loose shapes but not allowing themselves to be defined or limited by those patterns. I watched as they reached the river and circled over it, unable to turn away until they disappeared behind the trees in their descent.  

Birds charm us. From the parakeet keeper to the pigeon feeder, the occasional zoo-goer to the most dedicated birdwatcher, we are captivated by birds. They draw us in with their apparent humanity, their beauty, and their song; they hold us off with their ability to fly and their mystery; they instruct us with their joyous living.

Birds could not enchant us were they less accessible or, paradoxically, more familiar. They enjoy the advantage over mammals of being a more distinct group. Mammals, mere ground dwellers, blend with other clay-bound families, reptiles and the like. Insects, of course, offer greater variety than birds but suffer because they are rendered nearly invisible by their small size (let alone repulsive). Fish, which might compel our attention by their distinctiveness and grace, remain hidden from the scrutiny of many of us as they wander in another medium than ours. Birds we see every day and everywhere.

In their ability to adapt to all environments, birds remind us of ourselves. Proud of our self-proclaimed distinction of being able to live in all climates and terrains, we can admire birds’ unadvertised conquest of Arctic tropic, desert and mountain. Yes, other species of other kingdoms inhabit those environments too, but birds remain specially dear to us, perhaps because flight enables them to leave the harshest reaches for smoother going, but they stay anyway. We admire their toughness, their willingness to stick it out. Of course, some cannot fly away—certainly penguins can’t. And yet it is precisely those species that are the most endearingly human.  

Penguins are not unique in their near-humanity, though. All birds reflect human types. The still green heron contemplates infinity on its log, gazing back at us like a Zen master, asking questions we cannot answer. The mockingbird alternates mimicry, song, and dance while performing its night-club act on a chimney top. Ducks waddle out of our way in the ungainly manner of toddlers wrapped in winter snowsuits. Robins sharply eye the ground for food like the young executive looking for the main chance.

Birds are not the only creatures with humanlike qualities. Were that the case, Disney would have been out of business long ago. Birds are special because they provide far more than simply the opportunity to read people’s character in their actions. They give us the gifts of color and song. Horses, deer, and rabbits, all lauded for their majesty or cuddliness, are dull beside the bright glory of birds. Think of the pleasure in seeing even as common a bird as a starling with its white dots shining like a section of the Milky Way. Think of the egret, glowing in pure whiteness as it rises from the shore. Recall the exotic birds of the tropics, with floral trains and flashy tiaras. Other animals may display nobility or grace, but they cannot make glad a stormy day as can the welcome flash of a blue jay’s wings illuminated by a fleeting sun against a background of dark clouds.

Nor can other animals speak to us. While most mammals survive on their sense of smell—or like sheep, in some other, inexplicable, way—humans have evolved other mechanisms. We communicate visually and verbally. Thus, we feel close to birds because they do, too. Birds use their color and their movements as we use a smile and a tender squeeze of the arm—to create and cement bonds. As we identify and understand each other by face and gesture, birds use their plumage. And as we mark our territory or make our court with sounds, so do birds. In their wooing, we are enriched. Birds become transformed when they sing, not just delighting our ears and hearts, but seeming to enter another plane of existence—they move into a world of pure music, where communication is always Mozart and never jackhammers. Their easy concertizing shames us over our awkward grammar and halting sounds.

For birds also hold us off, distance themselves from us. Their ability to fly increases that distance and also underscores their difference. They seem to live in a more rarified world, one of spirits and gods, unachievable by us. Nailed to the ground, eyes drawn to the sky, the apparent source of life, we marvel at birds’ easy access to this higher realms. Jealous, we consider how their ability to fly must grant them a perspective on life that we cannot attain. We sense that they can somehow see into the future, are somehow aware that present problems will dissipate—that, by seeing just over the horizon that limits us, they know that the storm will clear.

That perspective, that wisdom, makes them mysterious to us. Even as we read humanity into birds, we are reminded of their un-humanity. Birds are questions. Where do they go in winter? How do they live when there? Why do they return—why not stay in one place, neither north nor south, but in the middle, where they can live year round? What makes them sing? (Other than sex.) Why did those Canada geese, after dipping toward the river, suddenly reappear, demanding my attention with their honks, and fly back toward the countryside they’d just left? What possessed them to make the shapes they now made—circles and Vs and lines and more waves? Why did they circle the field, veer back to the river, and then turn for land one more time?

Perhaps they were simply having fun, flying for the joy of flying. Living. In all their traits—in their color, their song, their flight, their mystery—birds teach us intent living, a lesson that their seeming-humanity makes more poignant, as we as a species seem so slow to learn it. Exemplars of life, they instruct us to experience the moment, demonstrating that, while time passes, it need not tyrannize. One moment, like a loved wife or child or parent, should be treasured for its uniqueness, not lamented for its evanescence. Birds understand this. They feel the moment intensely not because, fatalistically, their fear its passing, but because it is the moment at hand and because feeling it is the way to live. 

My wife and I, many years ago, drove to an Audubon sanctuary more than an hour from our home for a spot of birding. It was a New England spring day—bright, with the sun occasionally obscured by large, high clouds driven by a strong wind. The wind, the ranger told us, made it a poor day for birding—few species would choose to fight such gusts. Having driven far, however, we determined to take our chances. After hours of trudging through the woods, staring through binoculars at feeding ibises, being taunted by invisible warblers, and being daunted by bees on the approach to budding rhododendrons, we emerged into a field. Our muscles and senses were overtaxed. It had been a fairly good day—yielding five or six new sightings—but we were dissatisfied, tired from walking, grumpy about the bees, and reluctant to undertake the long drive home. The clouds seemed thicker now, and it was chilly. We did not speak, though our brains were churning with the day’s debates—did that one warbler we glimpsed have red streaks on its sides or not? Were they really glossy ibises? Why don’t the damn creatures come with labels????

As the last clouds blew past, the sun emerged again, and we collapsed onto some grass. We closed our eyes and lazed in the warmth, feeling our chilly hands warm up, unwilling to rouse ourselves to leave. Suddenly, the quiet was broken just above our heads by an exultant call. We looked up, and, on the topmost branch of a dead oak to our left, fiery in the sun, a cardinal jubilantly sang. He seemed small and fragile amidst the thick woods and against the height of the sky, but he didn’t know it. Or care. For ten or fifteen minutes, he lived his music while we watched and listened, speechless, binoculars cast aside, field guide unnecessary. His message delivered, he flew off.

Once he was gone, we could look at each other again, each finding renewed vivacity in the other’s eyes. Blessed by this spirit, we joined hands, arose, and went home. 

Words © AtHome Pilgrim.

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