Bird Court

The sky was scarlet this morning. The trees, that last night held the moon like a crystal ball, reached for the clouds scuttling away but only caught woodpeckers and flickers and some small brown wrens playing in the breeze. The birds did not avoid their neighbors or hold their songs. Later a young hawk crossed the road in front of me and landed on a wooden fence, looking carefully at the leaves scattered on both sides while the sparrows talked about him; no feelings were hurt; no one was eaten. The birds know when to call and when to fly and when it’s best to stay put. I learn from the birds though earthbound, though I crave more than seed and worm. I’ve lost more songs than I’ve ever learned though none that were explicitly about territory -- though just now, thinking back, yes, explicitly about territory and conquest and conquering. And the birds don’t get an out for conquest, having witnessed a Magpie hunting nests in a thick hedge. But they haven’t set up the bird government or the bird military or the bird courts to go after what they want. They aren’t working on a complicated plan to move us out of the way; they’re happy to let us do that ourselves.