Pica hudsonia is a singular bird. The magpie has introduced himself to us this summer by circling low through the orchard, landing high on the shop’s weathervane, or perching, teasingly, in an apple tree, all the while communicating by a raucous crow—like caw! Or, resting there, mumbling sweet nothings to us, as though reminding us who’s who and what’s what. He—or she—has a nest somewhere nearby, I suspect. As I watered the orchard trees, one by one, he was not the least disturbed and remained for several moments, muttering under his breath. Gabe, the Lab, and the black and white interloper engage in “catch me if you can,” initiated by the bird’s daring and proximity. A sharp bark signals “Go!”, and the game’s afoot.
Pronouncing the word pee, à la française (same genus in Europe), I hail the bird as fan-like gleaming wings splay and a spectacular long tail unfolds. Pie sails between, under, and over the orchard trees, with our dog chasing, leaping up (if I could only catch a tail feather, he might be thinking, though I don’t believe our faithful friend actually thinks; rather, he responds by total instinct, while demanding hugs and affection.) Pie heckles him with loud cries, and finally glides away. Counting this as play and our good fortune to witness it as joy, I will remember to record it in my evening’s Field Notes.
So much depends on acknowledging, noting, and recognizing the “good stuff.” I want to add these days. It is incumbent upon us as humans to bear witness to all of it, whether today, or in harkening back to what some might think of as “the good old days.” I eschew this designation. We were surfing back then, on a wave of good fortune (for the most part) and now comes the hard part. We may choose to lose our focus and fall into the troubling waves, or choose to grip more tightly to our senses and good sense. We possess the capacity. We have been taught. Our descendants need us to do what must be done. The game’s afoot.
The difference between the magpie’s and a playful Labrador’s amusement, and a democracy’s demise would seem wide as an ocean if it weren’t for the easy metaphors that present themselves for the obvious nod, if we but have the ears to hear or eyes to see, as the carpenter once enjoined. The Nazis trained their S.S. dogs to attack most viciously, so much so that my WWII, Korea, and Viet Nam veteran father forbade me to have the German Shepherd puppy I begged for, having been told horror stories regarding their temperament—all driven by cruel handlers. He relented, and Baron became a longtime beloved member of our family, the neighborhood watchdog, as it were, and never once mean-spirited. It all depends on intention, does it not?
Our republic is a free bird,
lighting where she will,
and by what we provide as citizens,
to do us good or ill.
Braeburn Croft 