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7.30am. After the tea tray was organised, and first cups poured, after sourdough toast pulled from the freezer was slotted into the toaster —on defrost— & timed to work with the eggs boiling to a soft set on the stovetop, there was an almighty crash at the dining room window. A confusing glance of dark I couldn't make sense of. I think I screamed. The kids followed it up with screams of their own. My fault.
The ball was made up of three birds, two grey butcherbirds attacking a blackbird. The blackbird hit the window at full tilt. The butcherbirds’ impact was cushioned by their prey —like an airbag in a car crash, Miss Eight later observed— they were still holding onto it when they hit the window. All three crashed to the ground, momentarily stunned — as were we. And then, the butcherbirds were up and back into the attack. Have you ever seen it?
Horrified, we charged out as a group to save the helpless blackbird, scattering the two butcherbirds into the branches of the box elder above. It was already too late. If it wasn’t dead already, it soon would be. We ushered the kids back inside. 'We cannot save the blackbird', we told them, 'and the butcher bird is a female with her young. They’ve worked hard for their catch. This is what nature does', we said. But also, 'let’s not look', and drew the curtains. Our teen twitched them aside, fascinated. Lacking religion to put this moment into context our kids discussed how angry Mother Nature must’ve been when she created them.
When the butcherbirds sang to each other over their kill, a soft melodic pattern of notes, it was oddly beautiful. Conflicted, toast and tea caught in our throats.
The ball was made up of three birds, two grey butcherbirds attacking a blackbird. The blackbird hit the window at full tilt. The butcherbirds’ impact was cushioned by their prey —like an airbag in a car crash, Miss Eight later observed— they were still holding onto it when they hit the window. All three crashed to the ground, momentarily stunned — as were we. And then, the butcherbirds were up and back into the attack. Have you ever seen it?
Horrified, we charged out as a group to save the helpless blackbird, scattering the two butcherbirds into the branches of the box elder above. It was already too late. If it wasn’t dead already, it soon would be. We ushered the kids back inside. 'We cannot save the blackbird', we told them, 'and the butcher bird is a female with her young. They’ve worked hard for their catch. This is what nature does', we said. But also, 'let’s not look', and drew the curtains. Our teen twitched them aside, fascinated. Lacking religion to put this moment into context our kids discussed how angry Mother Nature must’ve been when she created them.
When the butcherbirds sang to each other over their kill, a soft melodic pattern of notes, it was oddly beautiful. Conflicted, toast and tea caught in our throats.