Waiting for the Bushtit Brigade
By Susan Vasquez
I sit outside in early morning. Cold, I wait for the tiny bird that may or may not appear. It’s a test of patience. Or, more likely, a challenge to the precarious sense of control that rules the world of us humans. In my yard, creatures do what they want and I simply watch.
Bushtits are fairly new to me. I noticed them traversing our yard, or nearby, three years ago, not knowing their name or habits or what brings them irregularly our way.
Every so often, they march through the canopy of leaves that shades the patio. A rustle of sound and flutter of color traces their progress from the colonnade of Coastal Redwoods along the neighborhood’s main street. Something invites them this way, but I can’t guess what that may be. Why they come one day and not the next is something they keep secret. But it makes my attempts to study them haphazard. Maybe I miss them by coming out three minutes too late. Or they could pass by in the four minutes I am inside the house to refresh my tea.
I think of this grouping of tiny birds as a nomadic cult. They seem to have rules I do not understand and a method of behavior that is natural to them, a mystery to me.
Every morning as I sip and warm my toes by the fire pit, I wait for their parade. Many mornings, I am disappointed. But on occasion, the brigade honors my backyard by passing through. They leave me in awe of their coordinated movement, the economy of their marching efforts, and the smart fact that these tiny birds – not larger than hummingbirds, just fatter – chose to band together. They go about their daily business, proving each time, the wisdom of strength in numbers.
I have not yet seen individual birds, not distinctly, just a passing of a similarly-clad troupe of soldier birds. Merlin identifies their call. Bushtits, the app says. Peterson’s guide verifies their tiny size – 4 1/2 inches – and their propensity for group foraging. But the pictures on Merlin and in the guidebook do not seem like the picture I have in my mind. I want details.
Camouflaged inside the leaves of the Crape Myrtle, Plum Cherry and Chinese Pistache trees, I watch their march from below. A rippling movement, a flutter of air, a soft push of stem against branch and every so often a ‘pstt’. I imagine them, each bird, using a Star Trek-like cloaking device to hide them all, because I never see the bird, only the movement.
Yet, they march in the canopy on those lucky days when their path is through my yard. One floor up from where I sit, ground level, tea cup now cold and suspended from my hand, I watch the passing of the many. I imagine them as having not only the science fiction cloaking device, but also Elven silver wings that hide them from my eyesight. I imagine they have multi-grasping feet that work independently as their eyes focus in and out with an almost automatic mechanism. All these miracles of engineering are housed in a tiny bird body, a natural living creature.
I hope to be here the next time these accumulations of like-minded birds pass by. It’s a good, safe hope because nature’s guarantees are its seasonal habits. Nature wants to keep its promises. It wants to give assurances that Bushtits will come back another day. If I am patient.
Visit Susan Vasquez and her stories at https://susanvasquez.com/
