To repurpose a Charles Bukowski poem and book title: Mockingbird, wish you luck.
The scrub jay in the vanishing Florida outback, however, is our homie. Amy Tan's COVID year of bird watching in northern California turned up a Left Coast cousin of our scrub jay. Both similar in appearance to my untrained eye. Sonically, is the West Coast Scrub Jay more melodic and constrained in its phrasing than its Eastern peer -- more Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker, less Bird and Lester Bowie?
I don't know. The scrub jay, which is said to befriend humans, is nowhere to be seen nor heard around here. And reports from the state's interior are that the population is down and declining as scrub -- once the refuge of native fauna and Confederate draft dodgers -- is paved over.
The cardinals sing up a storm during the day on my street; the pileated sapsucker makes a mournful last call to its mate when the clouds go crepuscular. Seagulls cry as they commute from ocean to marsh and back, and ospreys keen as they seek fish and small prey. One smaller nondescript bird that I haven't been able to identify with certainty is the loudest of all, pound for pound. A painted bunting comes to the feeder in the spring, usually with a shy female and chick, and, wisely, does not seek the human ear.
We hear an owl 'round midnight with its hooting tattoo, playing taps.
To repurpose a Charles Bukowski poem and book title: Mockingbird, wish you luck.
The scrub jay in the vanishing Florida outback, however, is our homie. Amy Tan's COVID year of bird watching in northern California turned up a Left Coast cousin of our scrub jay. Both similar in appearance to my untrained eye. Sonically, is the West Coast Scrub Jay more melodic and constrained in its phrasing than its Eastern peer -- more Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker, less Bird and Lester Bowie?
I don't know. The scrub jay, which is said to befriend humans, is nowhere to be seen nor heard around here. And reports from the state's interior are that the population is down and declining as scrub -- once the refuge of native fauna and Confederate draft dodgers -- is paved over.
The cardinals sing up a storm during the day on my street; the pileated sapsucker makes a mournful last call to its mate when the clouds go crepuscular. Seagulls cry as they commute from ocean to marsh and back, and ospreys keen as they seek fish and small prey. One smaller nondescript bird that I haven't been able to identify with certainty is the loudest of all, pound for pound. A painted bunting comes to the feeder in the spring, usually with a shy female and chick, and, wisely, does not seek the human ear.
We hear an owl 'round midnight with its hooting tattoo, playing taps.
.
A beautiful response to my call, Michael. Questions of birdsong-jazz correlations to consider. I am grateful.