Story and Illustration By Susan Vasquez
The Pistache tree above me, deep in green leaves, shimmers with movement. But there is no breeze. I hear a familiar birdsong which recently I learned to identify. It’s as if nature, with a gentle touch, is ringing tiny glass bells. I see nothing but branches, leaves and slits of blue from the indistinct backdrop of sky. But I know bushtits are here this morning.
I have learned much about these birds. I now know their songs and their movement. But I’ve never seen one. Bushtits hide themselves, urging me to believe in something unseen. It’s not a concept that comes easily. I prefer evidence – actual physical things that I can see and possibly touch. Maybe the hiding bushtits wouldn’t allow me to get close. But if I could see them, high in the Pistache tree, I could snap a photo and touch the round chubbiness in the image, evidence that they exist. That kind of proof of life brings comfort. If the creature you see has weight and volume and color, there is no need for belief. If I had even a memory of having seen a real Bushtit, I could recall the cast shadow or the fact that it moved the branch it was sitting on or the leaf near its wing.
The app Merlin hears them often. I want to trust the sound and the movement to let me know they are there. But what I need is the visual.
I have seen other birds. Why shouldn’t I use my knowledge of the Scrub Jay I see daily and let it assure me other birds can also be close by? I hear the song of the Scrub Jay, I see their movement, I see them. I hear what may be bushtits. I see what I think is their movement in the tree. But I don’t see them.
People say seeing is believing. I say seeing is evidence. These happenings in my backyard, without the confirmation of bird-sighting, might be a wonder of nature or a whimsical idea put into my head to give me hope beyond hope.
If I wait until winter, that season may offer some proof. With branches bare of leaves, there will be no camouflage for the bushtits if they continue to march through the neighborhood. They would be out in the open, the truth of their existence unhidden. I suppose the bushtits would prefer the safety of the foliage, but I yearn for late autumn, when I won’t have to place my hope in unseen things.
I open Peterson’s guidebook and turn to the Bushtit section. I pick one photo and begin to draw its outline in my journal. It’s not evidence of bushtits in the Pistache tree. I look up, but they have already gone, on to the neighbor’s house, if they were really here at all. On my patio in winter, I may hear the tink-tink of birdsong and see a whisper of movement. Winter will come, eventually. And then, maybe I will see proof of Bushtit.
A sound from above pulls my attention away from the uncompleted sketch. It is a rousing chitter of tiny clinking bells, soft but insistent. A palm-sized ball of fluff lands on the outside branch of the Pistache tree. A second flies onto the branchlet next to it. The two balls of feathers, grey and tan and soft brown, bump into each other, tinkling their musical calls, flying into the foliage, lost again into their sanctuary. The tree shimmers as they pass through, onto their next adventure.
There wasn’t time for a photo. Hardly time for a thought. Nothing like this had ever happened during my morning sit on the patio. But now, I have a memory of bushtits showing themselves, calling out to each other and to me. Now, I have evidence of good things so that I don’t have to believe.
Visit Susan Vasquez and her stories at https://susanvasquez.com/
