Tweethearts

A small flock of starlings had gathered on the hydro lines around a lamp post. It was a pleasant evening in early spring and most of them were preoccupied with romance. Benny, the biggest and oldest of the bunch had been regaling them with an in depth recounting of his love life. Among those listening were partners Frank and Ella, the two who had just flown in from parts south; and Harry and Denise who had been living in the general neighborhood for two years. They liked it there and had decided to put down stakes and call it a life.

Frank and Ella were both fairly close-mouthed about their backgrounds. They hadn’t yet had a family and seemed to take great pains not to divulge their marital status. Henry, the widower, told everyone they couldn’t possibly be married because they were far too polite to each other. They never seemed to rustle each other’s feathers. Gertie, who had eyes only for Jerome, tsk-tsked at such impertinence, telling him, “You’ll live to regret those words, Henry. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth now. You need to wash out your beak tonight.”

Harry and Denise, on the contrary, seemed always to be squabbling about something. Most often it was food. They tried to outdo each other in quantity every day and Denise was canny enough to pretend there was nothing to eat in the bush where the block ended when, in fact, it was a veritable smorgasbord of tasty delights. But she was good at what she called pretending, though others would term it ‘lying’. Harry was no slouch himself and when he’d spied that the new family on the next block had just put a couple of bird feeders and – he drooled at the thought – a few suet cakes in holders about their property; he neglected to tell Denise. Had she discovered his deception, he knew she’d ban him from the nest for at least a week.

They thrived on gossip and there was never a break in the conversation, not even to stop for a breath. Today they seemed to agree on the subject of their discussion: The new guy had shown up about two weeks ago, on a day when all the feeders seemed to be teetering on empty. His name, Jerome informed them, was Steve and he had flown in late one early evening when the rest had scattered, still hungry for lack of seed. Most of them had gorged themselves instead on suet all afternoon and regretted the ill-advised feast. It would be dicey in the nests tonight. The robin two blocks over had joined them in their food fest and, the next day – looking severely drained – had told them they wouldn’t believe what came out of her when she’d regurgitated the kids’ evening worm.

Steve was one of the Crowsfoot starlings, all of whom lived in the swanky neighborhood two streets over. He was pleasant enough, but some of the ladies thought him mysterious. No one could imagine why he would leave such a swanky lifestyle and move to their working class neighborhood. The guys were quick to quiz him on nest rates in the hoity toity world he seemed determined to leave behind, but the ladies knew there was something about him, something in the way he seemed constantly to scan all around him. And he never settled in one spot on the hydro lines, flitting from one to the other, then back again. He seemed anxious and they wondered if he were some kind of felon, trying to escape capture.

“Nonsense,” Tante Susie told them. “I despair of you young ones some times. If you had eyes in the backs of your heads, you still couldn’t see the obvious. The boy’s lovestruck. Anyone can see that. He has that same faraway gaze as our Gertie.” They all knew Gertie had the hots for Jerome and, so, immediately began speculating as to which of the unattached girls Clive fancied. When the younger ladies heard there was a love-smitten and – they had seen for themselves – handsome newcomer with jet black wings and a head that gleamed purple in the sun, they were all a’twitter with excitement and spent hours arguing over which one of them it might be.

But Steve kept his counsel and never gave even a tiny clue about the identity of his heart-throb. After a few weeks of waiting in vain for Steve to drop a hint, the girls decided to find out themselves. One morning, decked out in their finery, they flocked together and flew to the tree where they knew Steve lived. He never made an appearance before 2 p.m., so they hoped to take him by surprise and annoy the answer out of him.

What if he were still in bed, Ramona speculated. At the very thought, the girls were appropriately titillated, and more than a few feathers fluffed. Giggling, they tittered back and forth amongst themselves, each imagining catching handsome Steve in the altogether. Little Eleanor could barely contain her lunch she was so excited at the prospect.

They arrived just after 11 a.m., which they hoped should give him time to be up and about. As they neared the tree, they formed a comely pattern and slowed their flight. They certainly didn’t want to scare him. Ramona was the first to see him. Ramona was also the first to see her.

HER? What? There sat a lady bird cosied up to Steve canoodling away. The ladies, shocked and disappointed, decelerated and reversed to head to the nearest tree. They had to regroup and perch as long as it took them to recover from this unexpected turn of events.

Ramona was the only one who didn’t join the tree gaggle. She wanted a better look at the interloper. Quietly, she glided slowly past the back of nest where there was an open space from a lightning strike the previous summer. With her eagle eye, she quickly saw something that sent her flying at top speed back to the girls.

“What? Who?” they wanted to know, nearly knocking Ramona off the branch she’d chosen.

“Wait until I collect myself,” ordered Ramona, fluffing her neck feathers straight up. “She’s not one of us,” she whispered, loudly enough for them all to hear.

“What do you mean?” asked Gloria.

“Well,” Ramona began, “she’s a red wing.”

“What? Never!” The girls had become a chorus of comments.

“You mean the red-winged blackbirds way over by the pond in Millar’s field trees?” Gloria quizzed. “But they’re snowbirds. I haven’t seen any of them around for months.”

“Well, there’s at least one now,” stated Ramona, in a tone that precluded any complaints.

“What’s her name?” Cora demanded. “We’ll have to shun her. Steve too, now we know he’s a traitor.” matter.”

“Now, Cora,” Ramona corrected her sternly, “that’s hardly our style. We’re high class girls, proper ladies. Remember that.” She ‘ahem’ed and thought a bit before saying, “I think the best course of action in this situation would be not to let Steve know we know his secret.”

“But a stripey blackbird? I’ll bet she’s one of the ones who over-puff up their chests. Linda blurted “You know what flirts they are.” She was becoming apoplectic.

“Hussies!” Bernice contributed loudly.

“Stop that. She’s Steve’s secret and we have to respect that. When he knows he can trust us, he’ll tell us, I’m sure. And how will we respond?”

Annie-Mae, the smallest of the girls, raised a wing, then piped up. “We’ll tell him to keep her away from us.”

“Annie-Mae, we’ll do no such thing. What a thing to suggest. Your mother would be mortified.” Ramona glared at her. Annie-Mae moved the wing over her eyes and peeped, nearly inaudibly, “Sorry.”

“We will be very happy for him and invite his lady friend to our hydro wire. And we’ll treat her how?

No one dared answer. Ramona said firmly. “With respect and open wings.” She shook herself until her feathers had nearly turned purple. “Now,” she said, “let’s shake a feather and get back to the wire before the boys steal all the good perches.”

As they gathered in a loose formation, every one of them flew silently, mulling over all the new information.

Except for Annie-Mae. She flew as close as she could, then whispered to Connie. “They’re the boys with the shiny red stripe, right?”

Connie, concentrating on beating yesterday’s fly time, just nodded ‘yes’.

“Ooooh, I do love a man in uniform,” said Annie-Mae. “Do you think maybe I can snag me one of those dreamboats?”

Connie just groaned.