Jack Burns Lives!

Sunday Morning Musings

This started out as a piece on birds. Winter birds, as we’ve had the recent pleasure of visiting with some seasonal friends visiting during their winter vacation. Then it morphed into something else entirely, thanks to my Attention Deficit Disorder or what used to be called lack of concentration or focus. I shifted to e-mail suddenly and opened a message about Wall Street and a decade of poor stock performance.

One should never pass up a chance to read good news.

So, what was originally intended to be an essay on winter birds, turned into a rambling soliloquy on non-humans, humans and our contrasting paths in life.

…A favorite winter pastime is animal watching. Non-humans, mostly, although I have been known to observe and make careful notes about the peculiar behavior of featherless bipeds in all seasons. Seems no season is without human folly. But without question, I’ve always found non-humans much more interesting, especially avian species and much more tolerable as neighbors.

The Mississippi Delta region, my year round home, comes alive in winter with a bevy of avian species. Migratory species make their way to the Southland, usually by late December, to forage in our rich fields and in our plentiful forests. While the South may often seem devoid of progressive social mores and attitudes, it’s not devoid of the necessary elements for survival. We’re blessed with rivers and streams, in varying levels of pollution and decay, an abundance of woodlands and vegetation, rich, legendary soil and a mild climate. Nearly any creature could live here, save a few reptiles than clearly prefer and require a warmer environment.

Dixie ain’t a bad place to winter and our abundant resources are one reason I’ve chosen to remain in the South.

The Delta is most famous for its flyway, the primary migratory path for waterfowl. Hunters spend millions of dollars every fall preparing for the southeastern push where millions of Mallards, Gadwalls, Redheads and Canadian geese make their annual trek. The hunter’s job is to make sure not all of them make it back. The job of state and federal agencies is to make sure enough of ‘em make it back.

It’s a story that’s had its ups and downs. While the waterfowl population rebounded from near decimation in the 1970’s (and saw a 13% increase from 2008 to 2009), migratory avian species, like Wood thrush, Northern oriole, Golden-cheeked warbler, Scarlet tanager and Whippoorwill are now facing much grimmer prospects, thanks to deforestation. Of the 836 migratory birds under federal protection, about one quarter are in trouble.

My job is to enjoy all of it and call it like I see it. To speak the plain truth, as Edward Abbey used to say.

I grew up participating in the annual slaughter of drakes and susies, but my favorite pastime as long been observation, not killing. Especially watching songbirds. We’re blessed in winter with a host of species, including a generous population of Dark-eyed juncos. They’re usually the first to arrive, followed by Ruby-crowned Kinglets (a favorite), Golden-crowned kinglets, Sedge wren, and Brown creeper, joining our year ‘round population of Northern cardinal, Carolina wren, Black-capped and Carolina chickadee, White-breasted nuthatch, Tufted titmouse and Eastern bluebirds.

Some of our species, like the Prairie warbler, leave for the warmer, sub-tropic climate of Florida in winter, while other species, like the Common yellowthroat, stay in Florida most of the year, but find it too warm in the summer months and retreat northward to the Delta. Each species has its own, unique pattern.

Winter is the optimum season for most birders. The trees have shed their leaves and this makes the viewing easier. One can immediately and easily pick out the resplendent coat of the Northern cardinal on the stem of a leafless Dogwood. Even the grey Titmouse, usually carefully camouflaged against a steel grey sky and brownish-grey limbs, is more easily seen. But even in winter, most species are heard and not seen. It’s important to know the calls.

And all species are readily observed if you get off the couch, turn off the tee-vee and go outside. Only a few steps into your yard may reveal wonders you never know existed.

I’ve spent countless hours watching these cheerful creatures. I sometimes wonder what, if anything, goes on inside their little minds. Do they ponder us to any great extent beyond the recognition that we may be a threat? Do birds that come back to the same feeding spots, year in and year out, recognize us? I think perhaps they do.

And while humans are so busy gathering up all sorts of unneeded plastic crap and blowing up entire countries, non-humans seem content to simply gather up the necessities and go about the very real business of survival. Yes, there are territorial pissings, but you’ll never see a wren attack another wren to the point of death. An aggressive flight toward the intruder and a peck or two usually gets the message across: this patch is mine. Bugger off. And sure, other species do kill to protect territory, but humans have taken it to a whole new level.

Humans can’t stop at that, however. We have to kill if our beloved patch is invaded. Or, round-up the unwanted and place them in reservations with the threat of death should any venture beyond the approved boundary. We don’t typically fire warning shots, and I’m beginning to think we’ve developed an insatiable appetite for death and mayhem, a deplorable state that almost always coincides with economic expansion.

My wife and I were treated to a special delight on Christmas night. While traveling home from a family gathering at my brother-in-law’s we saw a Red fox scamper across the road into a patch of woods adjacent to the road. One of the few “patches” we have remaining, thanks to developers that have mowed down nearly every forest in our community. It was the first fox we’d seen in our area, although I suspected a few urban survivors were in our midst. But the elation of the sighting soon gave way to despair as we reached the end of the “property” and saw a “For Sale” sign posted adjacent to a major road.

I wondered, where will the fox go? What choices does he or she have once their home is destroyed and so few places remaining? I pictured the fox being shot at or chased as it tried to make its way through a labyrinth of steel and concrete, desperate to find a new forest.

Sigh….

When I watch birds or see animals like the fox, I often think of Ed Abbey. About the prescient nature of his words, and how he foretold most of what we’re seeing today. Except it’s even worse, I fear, than what he thought. The speed with which we’ve destroyed our home is alarming and even more alarming is the fact that we know what’s happening, We know how to fix it, yet we do not act in any meaningful or measurable way to even slow it, much less stop it.

How disheartening is it that our “hope” President left Copenhagen declaring “victory” when no firm goals and agreements were set? Real progress is stymied by greed.

Unlike non-humans that are keenly aware of their environments, that know winter is coming and know to fly south and gather food, humans do nothing. It’s analogous to flying further north where there’s less food and even fewer chances for survival. For all our science and so-called advances, we’re really, collectively, a stupid species. Watching the wren gather nesting materials and seed, I believe it perhaps lives a far superior life, and is, in fact, the more advanced species. As I sit and watch it, I wonder, what will it take for man to live as the wren?

I hear people say, “What’s happened to our country?” And to that I say, “Not much, it’s always been this way, the ugliness is just on a larger, more magnificent scale.”

Our so-called free market and democratic government have morphed into a single, ugly fascist beast. A wealthy few hold the strings of purses fattened by economic expansionism and militarism. Politicos flip back and forth from Wall Street to Washington, greasing the skids for the approved. Most of the rest (except a few steadfast anarchist holdouts like Hayduke), the so-called lucky ones, willingly jumped into the vortex of serfdom for the chance at $200K per year and the so-called good life. But that $200K comes with an unbearable price.

Did it for your kids? Why, so they’ll have a chance at jumping in with us? You never heard me telling my kids “Come on in, the water’s great!” No. I screamed, “Stay away! The water is full of sharks!”

But we have our goodies, right? iPods, iPhones, flat screens, 4 wheel drive Mastodons, lavish vacations and for many, expensive, nasty divorces. We joked about “keeping up with the Jones’” until we realized the horrible trap we’d all fallen into. That we’d become prisoners to our wealth and had no life. Not enough hiking, climbing, gardening, writing, painting or music making. All the things that make life really rich.

Even hunting beats sitting in a cubicle all day.

Myself, I would have much preferred a small rancher or cabin, nestled in a valley along side some forgotten peak. Being a teacher, a grocer or a writer. My grandfather ran a neighborhood grocery he owned. Didn’t make much money, but he made enough and had a sufficient and comfortable bungalow that was cute as a button.

I just hope I can just live out my days sitting in a rocker on a creaky front porch. Cold beer in one hand. A good book in another. Rifle propped up against the wall (in case any real estate agents, bankers or Republicans come creeping around). A good dog at my feet and the song of the wren in the air. The smell of Allison making biscuits. Fresh eggs crackling in a cast iron skillet. Hot coffee. To see and feel the breeze as it rustles through live oak and mesquite. The chirping of crickets and frogs at night. No other sounds. No leaf blowers, lawn mowers or traffic. Inside, the house is quiet except for the activity in the kitchen. A wall of books from floor to ceiling that holds my precious collection of books. Other walls holding other things precious and dear. Photos of our family. My son’s art. A nice hearth and comfortable seating. A solid table for meals. All that’s needed beyond that is the company of family and friends, perhaps a grandchild or two. Then we can share our stories of old campsites and clandestine, morally necessary activities over a square meal. We can hike the next morning up the mountain, take it all in and ponder our existence on a planet profiteers seem hell bent on destroying.

And then we die. Either with our boots as Abbey did or in some awful corporate hospital with thousand dollar tubes hanging out of every orifice.

The wren has chosen its path, and so shall we choose ours. And there’s no middle ground. Pick a side and raise your voice. Either that or get the hell out of the way. The rest of us have work to do.