Turdus Migratorious: The Song of the South
Turdus Migratorious is not a name dredged from my surplus of lowbrow humor.
Turdus Migratorious is not the term for feces flung by monkeys.
Turdus Migratorious is not (to my knowledge) an obscure spell for waste removal at Hogwarts.
Turdus Migratorious, is the herald of Spring, a song bird and Mary Poppins' fowl foreign friend
Turdus Migratorious is the genuine scientific name of the American Robin.
This afternoon The Lady and I met Mr. Parham at the Borders to pick up our free passes for tonight's eXperimental Puppet Theatre. After a few hours of coffee and conversation, the three of us walked home. Trying to beat the approaching storm, we took the hillside pass beyond the hardware store, down into The Highlander parking lot.
While we were balancing along the curb, Mr. Parham's discourse was derailed by an alarmed peep-peep-peep originating at the base of a nearby lamp post. There, surrounded on either side by busy tarmac, hiding on the tiny island of wilted grass which separates the Highlander's parking lot from the entry road, was a young bird just coming into it's feathers. I squatted down to investigate the noisome little fallout and try to decide what could be done. The baby looked as good as a baby bird can, all pink bits, sparse down, and stiff quills bursting into feather-tips. baby birds always remind me of disgruntled, wizened old men, with their tufts of "hair" sticking out over spectacle-like black eyes. The infant looked up to me in that wobbly infant way, peeped again and, with out-stretched neck, it's entire face opened, becoming a diamond-shaped maw. Its yellow-orange mouth and throat standing out as in extreme contrast to its muted down and feathers.
Looking up to the lamp post and a nearby sapling for any sign of a nest which might have ejected a baby in the rising wind, a fat raindrop hit me in the face. There were no signs of mom, dad, or nest and a storm was about to hit. Scooping up the chick in one hand, I delegated who should do what... revised the plan, re-delegated, and revised again as we walked for cover under the Highlander's smoking porch.
My first idea was to get the bird a temporary nest, perhaps a 'To-Go' box from the Highlander, but looking into the smokey bar and feeling the sleepy-heat radiating from the innocent chick, some deep rooted parental law kicked in and I opted not to sully this new life in such a hardened human hangout. I knew we couldn't make it back to the pet store, the rain would overtake us and there'd be no telling how long we'd have to wait it out. But Trader Joe's was open around the corner, and Mr. Parham assured me they carried blackberries, so we headed there.
Handing the chick to The Lady, I went inside, and purchased a large crate of blackberries. Back outside, sitting next to The Lady with the bird in my hand again, I reminding her that she had a camera and should take advantage of the photo op. Then I attempted to feed the baby robin without success.
Mr. Parham exited Trader Joe's with his purchase a moment later, and we started out again. Reaching the end of his street, the rain began to come down harder and we said our hurried good-byes without looking back. By the time we'd made it to The Fourt, the bird, cupped in my hands, was the only one of us who'd managed to keep dry.
I've been hand feeding the baby with a pair of tweezers since its arrival late yesterday afternoon. Thus far it's managed to swallow at least 5 large blackberries and a few slices of tomato. Tomorrow we'll try mealworms and grubs.
I've dubbed our guest Pipkin**. Pipkin is currently nested in a Turner lunchbox, shaped like a retro-television. The hinged roof of Pipkin's nest which resembles a TV screen reads "Tune In To Your Potential!"
Somehow I find that appropriate for a rescued songbird...
Every Spring fallout fledglings are found in our yards and streets, it's natural and unfortunately very commonSome feathered parents, including Robins, will go to great lengths to care for young that have fallen from the nest. But this year, while walking around our neighborhood looking for apartments, I've noticed an unusual number of dead adult robins. So, I worry that something much worse is approaching when our Spring minstrel is falling victim to some unknown death.
* American Robins are not indigenous to England, further implicating Ms. Poppins as a powerful magician.
**Pipkin: Named in recognition of having recently completed reading Watership Down. Pipkin is one of the cutest characters in the book, next to Fiver
Turdus Migratorious is not the term for feces flung by monkeys.
Turdus Migratorious is not (to my knowledge) an obscure spell for waste removal at Hogwarts.
Turdus Migratorious, is the herald of Spring, a song bird and Mary Poppins' fowl foreign friend
Turdus Migratorious is the genuine scientific name of the American Robin.
This afternoon The Lady and I met Mr. Parham at the Borders to pick up our free passes for tonight's eXperimental Puppet Theatre. After a few hours of coffee and conversation, the three of us walked home. Trying to beat the approaching storm, we took the hillside pass beyond the hardware store, down into The Highlander parking lot.
While we were balancing along the curb, Mr. Parham's discourse was derailed by an alarmed peep-peep-peep originating at the base of a nearby lamp post. There, surrounded on either side by busy tarmac, hiding on the tiny island of wilted grass which separates the Highlander's parking lot from the entry road, was a young bird just coming into it's feathers. I squatted down to investigate the noisome little fallout and try to decide what could be done. The baby looked as good as a baby bird can, all pink bits, sparse down, and stiff quills bursting into feather-tips. baby birds always remind me of disgruntled, wizened old men, with their tufts of "hair" sticking out over spectacle-like black eyes. The infant looked up to me in that wobbly infant way, peeped again and, with out-stretched neck, it's entire face opened, becoming a diamond-shaped maw. Its yellow-orange mouth and throat standing out as in extreme contrast to its muted down and feathers.
Looking up to the lamp post and a nearby sapling for any sign of a nest which might have ejected a baby in the rising wind, a fat raindrop hit me in the face. There were no signs of mom, dad, or nest and a storm was about to hit. Scooping up the chick in one hand, I delegated who should do what... revised the plan, re-delegated, and revised again as we walked for cover under the Highlander's smoking porch.
My first idea was to get the bird a temporary nest, perhaps a 'To-Go' box from the Highlander, but looking into the smokey bar and feeling the sleepy-heat radiating from the innocent chick, some deep rooted parental law kicked in and I opted not to sully this new life in such a hardened human hangout. I knew we couldn't make it back to the pet store, the rain would overtake us and there'd be no telling how long we'd have to wait it out. But Trader Joe's was open around the corner, and Mr. Parham assured me they carried blackberries, so we headed there.
Handing the chick to The Lady, I went inside, and purchased a large crate of blackberries. Back outside, sitting next to The Lady with the bird in my hand again, I reminding her that she had a camera and should take advantage of the photo op. Then I attempted to feed the baby robin without success.
Mr. Parham exited Trader Joe's with his purchase a moment later, and we started out again. Reaching the end of his street, the rain began to come down harder and we said our hurried good-byes without looking back. By the time we'd made it to The Fourt, the bird, cupped in my hands, was the only one of us who'd managed to keep dry.
I've been hand feeding the baby with a pair of tweezers since its arrival late yesterday afternoon. Thus far it's managed to swallow at least 5 large blackberries and a few slices of tomato. Tomorrow we'll try mealworms and grubs.
I've dubbed our guest Pipkin**. Pipkin is currently nested in a Turner lunchbox, shaped like a retro-television. The hinged roof of Pipkin's nest which resembles a TV screen reads "Tune In To Your Potential!"
Somehow I find that appropriate for a rescued songbird...
Every Spring fallout fledglings are found in our yards and streets, it's natural and unfortunately very commonSome feathered parents, including Robins, will go to great lengths to care for young that have fallen from the nest. But this year, while walking around our neighborhood looking for apartments, I've noticed an unusual number of dead adult robins. So, I worry that something much worse is approaching when our Spring minstrel is falling victim to some unknown death.
* American Robins are not indigenous to England, further implicating Ms. Poppins as a powerful magician.
**Pipkin: Named in recognition of having recently completed reading Watership Down. Pipkin is one of the cutest characters in the book, next to Fiver