So many books. So little time.
The jays are back. Are they two friends or one faithful couple? we don’t know. But they’ve always come together. Season after season, year after year they come, a whoosh of wings and their distinctive call announcing the arrival. Look out the window and they’re there, hopping on the hardened ground, traveling through the trees, totally reclaiming the yard as their property.
It’s not their size that gives them dominance. They are not big birds, like emus or ostriches. Nor do they have feathers to flaunt, dance moves to entice, trilling songs to enthrall. They do not, like birds of prey, swoop through the yard creating panic amongst the feeding birds as a fox let loose in a chicken coop. No. Their appearance is quiet: two shades of blue and two shades of brown, deep, dark eyes and a small white bib. They just are. Like a reticent, well-dressed gentleman.
Ah how deceptive appearances can be. Their call is loud, and constant. Stillness is not in their demeanor. Up and down and all around they go in an exuberant display. "Come, come," they call. Chirrrrp. Chirrrp. Here I am, they say, come join me in my play. They peck on the ground and swoop through the branches. "Come, come, come."
When Mirabella wanders out to sun herself they see not a cat (a danger to stay away from) but a new friend. One by one they land near her and strut around. Mira yawns. As much as they are unafraid of her, she is not interested in them as potential prey. Yawn.
Really? They take to the air, executing flybys that a skilled pilot would be proud of. Mira seeks peace under the patio table.
Jays don’t give up easily. Mira steps out, they call. Their arial acrobatics kick up a notch. Like fighter pilots they plummet earthwards, startling Mira into the house. They follow right after — the untamed entering domesticity.
Oh such drama at one’s doorstep. Friendship proffered and refused. Character and conflict. Fear and confusion. Enough material here for a novel or two. Thank you scrub jays. Life is good.