AN AFTERNOON WITH SWALLOW-TAIL KITES

Swallow-tail Kite

I spent a little time yesterday afternoon watching five swallow-tail kites perform an aerial ballet above the trees and fields a few miles for my house.  The swallow-tail kite is the most elegant and graceful member of the raptor family, and its essence was beautifully described many years ago by John James Audubon in his famous book, The Birds of America (1828 —1837):

The flight of this elegant species of Hawk is singularly beautiful and protracted. It moves through the air with such ease and grace, that it is impossible for any individual, who takes the least pleasure in observing the manners of birds, not to be delighted by the sight of it whilst on wing.  Gliding along in easy flappings, it rises in wide circles to an immense height, inclining in various ways its deeply forked tail, to assist the direction of its course, dives with the rapidity of lightning, and, suddenly checking itself, reascends, soars away, and is soon out of sight.

Here are some of the other images I made yesterday, punctuated by some important observations about birds:

In order to see birds

it is necessary to become a part of the silence.

Robert Lynd

The very idea of a bird

is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet.

A bird seems to be at the top of the scale,

so vehement and intense is his life,

large-brained, large-lunged, hot, ecstatic,

his frame charged with buoyancy and his heart with song.

John Burroughs

Birds are indicators of the environment.

If they are in trouble, we know we'll soon be in trouble.

Roger Tory Peterson

Happy of happy though I be,

like them I cannot take possession of the sky,

mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there,

one of a mighty multitude whose way

and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.

William Wordswoth

I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach 10,000 stars how not to dance.

E.E. Cummings

Illustration of Swallow-tailed Hawk

(now classified as Swallow-tailed Kite)

by

John James Audubon

The Birds of America

SYMBOLS OF HOPE IN TROUBLED TIMES

Grasshopper Sparrow

Faced with the deadly coronavirus pandemic, a collapse of the American economy, more than forty million people unemployed, chronic racism and racial violence, rioting and looting provoked by opportunistic anarchists, and a narcissistic president who has neither the empathy nor the competence to deal effectively with any of these pressing issues, it is increasingly difficult to greet each day with any sense of hope for the future.  Indeed, many of us live with a gnawing feeling that we are treading on the hard edge of despair.

There is always hope, however, if we just look for it in the right places, and one of the places I personally choose is nature.  In nature, we are constantly reminded that everything is interconnected, that beauty is always a manifestation of contrast, and that diversity is central to all growth, survival, and prosperity.

Within the natural world, birding is a particular source of inspiration for me.  Think for a moment about the small grasshopper sparrow belting out its morning song in the photo at the top of this posting.  These sparrows are so fragile — an average weight of six tenths of an ounce — that it is hard to imagine how they survive the devastating  storms that have been passing through my area in the past few weeks.  They have done more than survive, however; they have prevailed and risen at first light to deliver new gifts of beauty, song, and friendship.  This, to me, is the essence of hope.

Below are some images of other inspirational birds I have spent time with lately.  I have also paired these images with inspirational quotes on hope by some of the people I have long admired. Enjoy.

Dickcissel

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

                                                         

Blue Grosbeak

Hold fast to dreams,

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird,

That cannot fly.

Langston Hughes

Barn Owl

There is a crack

 in everything.

That's how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

 Northern Rough-necked Swallow

You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going.  What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope."

 Thomas Merton

Dickcissel

      We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.

Martin Luther King Jr.

Blue Grosbeak

 The future is an infinite succession of presents, 

and to live now as we think human beings should live, 

in defiance of all that is bad around us,

is itself a marvelous victory.

Howard Zinn

Dickcissel

You an cut all the flowers 

but you cannot keep Spring from coming.

Pablo Neruda

Barn Swallow

The best way to not feel hopeless is to get up and do something.  Don't wait for good things to happen to you.  If you go out and make some good things happen, you will feel the world with hope, you will fill yourself with hope."

Barack Obama 

  

      Grasshopper Sparrow

PEACE

             

ODE TO BIRD-WATCHING

White-throated Sparrow

Upstate South Carolina

Ode to Bird-Watching

By Pablo Neruda

(translation by Stephen Mitchell)

                                            Now

                                            to look for birds!

                                            The high iron branches

                                            in the forest,

                                            the dense

                                            fecundity of the soil

                                            the whole world

                                            is wet,

                                            rain or dew

                                            shines, a tiny

                                            star

                                            in the leaves:

                                            in the early morning

                                            mother earth is cool,

                                            the air

                                            is like a river

                                            that shakes

                                            the silence,

                                            it smells of rosemary,

                                            of space

                                            and roots.

                                            Above, 

                                            a wild song,

                                            a waterfall,

                                            it's a bird.   

                                            How

                                            from a throat

                                            smaller than a finger

                                            can the waters

                                            of this song fall?

                                            Luminous grace!

                                            Invisible

                                            power, 

                                            torrent 
                                            of music

                                            in the leaves,

                                            sacred conversation!

                                            Clean, washed, cool

                                            is this day,

                                            resonant

                                            like a green zither,

                                            I bury my shoes

                                            in the mud,

                                            I leap over springs,

                                            a thorn

                                            rips me and a gust

                                            of air like a crystal 

                                            wave

                                            separates on my chest.

                                            Where

                                            are the birds?

                                            Was that one, maybe,

                                            that

                                            whispering in the foliage

                                            of that fugitive ball

                                            of gray velvet

                                            or that sudden shift

                                            of perfume?  That leaf

                                            which the cinnamon tree let go,

                                            was it a bird?  That dust

                                            from the irritated magnolia

                                            or that fruit

                                            which fell resounding,

                                            was that a flight?

                                            O invisible little cretins, 

                                            fiendish birds,

                                            go

                                            to hell

                                            with your twittering,

                                            with your useless feathers!

                                            I just wanted

                                            to stroke them,

                                            to see them glisten,

                                            I don't want

                                            to see their lightning embalmed

                                            in a showcase,

                                            I want to see them alive,

                                            I want to touch their gloves

                                            of genuine leather,

                                            which they never forget in the branches,

                                            and to talk to them

                                            on my shoulders

                                            even if they leave me like certain statues

                                            undeservedly whitened.

                                            Impossible.

                                            They can't be touched,

                                            they can be heard

                                            like a heavenly

                                            whisper or movement,

                                            they talk

                                            precisely,

                                            repeat

                                            their observations,

                                            brag

                                            about whatever they're doing,

                                            comment

                                            on whatever exists,

                                            master

                                            certain sciences

                                            like hydrography

                                            and know for certain

                                            where all the grains

                                            are being harvested.

                                            Well then,

                                            invisible

                                            birds

                                            of the forest, of the woods,

                                            of the pure bower,

                                            birds of the acacia

                                            and of the oak,

                                            crazy, amorous, 

                                            astonishing birds, 

                                            conceited

                                            soloists,

                                            migratory musicians,

                                            one last

                                            word

                                            before

                                            I go back

                                            with wet shoes, thorns

                                            and dry leaves 

                                            to my home:

                                            vagabonds, 

                                            I love you

                                            free, 

                                            far from the shotgun and the cage,

                                            fugitive

                                            corollas, 

                                            this is the way

                                            I love you, 

                                            ungraspable,

                                            united and sonorous

                                            society of the heights,

                                            liberated

                                            leaves,

                                            champions

                                            of the air,

                                            petals

                                            of smoke,

                                            free,

                                            cheerful

                                            flyers and singers, 

                                            aerial, terrestrial,

                                            sailors of the wind,

                                            happy

                                            builders

                                            of the softest nests,

                                            unceasing

                                            messengers of pollen,

                                            matchmakers

                                            of the flower, uncles

                                            of the seed,

                                            I love you, 

                                            ingrates:

                                            I'm going home,

                                            happy to have lived with you

                                            a moment

                                            in the wind.

American Goldfinch

THE SEASON OF NEW BEGINNINGS

Northern Cardinal

South Carolina Botanical Garden

Clemson, South Carolina

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be the happiest.  The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits.  People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast