The Bird Lady

At last, she was free to devote her time and energy to her birds. She had slaved twenty-eight years at the university library and now, settled in a modest little house in a modest little town, her true life could begin. She filled the yard with pedestals and poles and festooned both massive guardian oaks with hanging feeders. The screened porch hosted a jumble of cages, and "Private Property" signs sprouted.

When her neighbors stopped by with the welcome basket, she was busy filling the dishes of delicate feathered friends whose cages and perches overruled sofas and chairs in the parlor. The doorbell excited her residents so she marched out, grabbed the basket and chirped "Thanks" before slamming the door. She hadn't moved here to make human friends but to indulge her love for the avian members of her family.

She did not attend town meetings or potluck church suppers or buy scout cookies and school candy. Because it was necessary, she paid a succession of teen-agers to mow her lawn in the summer, but she left the money in the mailbox and only spoke to the boy when she was dissatisfied. Once a week she walked the three blocks to Martin’s Grocery for two bags of food: one for herself and one for the birds. After a few months, she overheard (her hearing was quite keen, as was her distance vision) the check-out clerk at the store refer to her as the Bird Lady. Smiling to herself, she whistled happily all the way home. Bird Lady indeed! What an honor to be identified with the noblest of species.

One late mid-summer dusk, as she was conversing with Sir Reginald McCaw, a loud thumping boom rattled her windows. Alarmed, she flew onto her screened porch. Through the bars of her birds' cages she spied a large adolescent ignoring her signs and trespassing on her lawn. Chasing a soccer ball, she saw; how dared he terrify her friends! She jerked the door open and screeched. Gratifyingly, the boy jumped, stared at her over his shoulder for a petrified instant, and then bolted for the road. Good riddance. She smoothed her ruffled feathers and hurried inside to relate the incident to sympathetic ears.

The Bird Lady hated the neighbors' cats and dogs: nasty, nosy murderers, every one of them. Their unwarranted harassment of her family members demonstrated their demonic nature. She was compelled to take action when the fat gray tabby from next door pounced on Cynthia Sparrow. Roger Catbird (inappropriate name!) dived to the rescue but tragedy ensued: Cynthia suffered a broken wing and Roger was martyred. Conferring with family and friends, the Bird Lady plotted revenge. She dropped the cat's broken corpse on the neighbors' patio.

Summer folded into autumn; new additions shed their pinfeathers and joined in preparations for colder weather. The Bird Lady had never been so busy, or so happy; scratching in the grass for juicy snacks, filling the nest with soft warm bunting, and twittering the evenings away in the most delightful company. She did have trouble with her feet; "Well, I guess I'm getting old," she sighed, and ordered some wide, shapeless booties for her yellowing claws. Because her arms were drawing up and backwards, she found it easier to eat as the rest of her family did: her nose and mouth fused together and the resultant beak was ever so convenient whether she was consuming tiny seeds or meaty grubs. She and Sir Reggie shared many a caw as their beaks met slurping opposite ends of the same worm. With the first frost came an unaccustomed restlessness and vague urges she could not satisfy. She never slept, and the full moon whispered and cajoled: "Come, come—"

A filthy slobbering dog overturned two birdbaths and a pedestal feeder, crushing a pair of visiting wrens. The Bird Lady was all aflutter; this time she did not wait for advice from her council. She tracked the offender, seizing him by his hind leg, flew straight up until the panicking miscreant twisted out of her grasp and hit the ground with a wrenching thud. When she cautiously waddled near, she could see that the awkward thing had broken its back. Clucking in appreciation of a job well done, she made her way home.

The nebulous unease waned until the next waxing moon snuck up on her. When the orb filled her window, the urgency rebounded, suddenly strong. "Fly, fly, fly," sang the moon. She chirped a question to an owl deep the woods and he replied: "You must heed the summons; it is your time to ride the wind south."

With perfect clarity, the Bird Lady understood. Migration.

Twin plump tears puddled on the pinfeathers beneath each eye and trickled down her beak. She fluffed out her feathers, briskly shaking off her sadness like a duck shedding a hard rain. First, she opened all the doors so that whoever wished to depart could do so. For those who chose to remain indoors, she set out multiple servings of food and drink. There was nothing else she could do for them now that the wanderlust had seized her. In the bathroom, the Bird Lady studied her reflection: white feathers on her face and head, iridescent black body; strong wings and curved spine, blunt spade of tail feathered in black with white tips. She was beautiful, she thought proudly; and then, as she gazed on the silent array of grieving faces clustered around her, she cawed a prolonged, mournful cry, stalked to the open back door, and launched herself into the sky.