23 June 2004 - (this was published as a shorter version in a KQED Perspective)
I live on the edge of the Presidio forest in San Francisco; my garden stays the edge between the suburban grid of the Richmond and the Cypress-Pine-Euc forest of a hundred and fifty years ago. Its Army-made origins do not diminish its beauty nor enhance the fact that there is a war dance underground, on the surface and in the air. It is the natural order of birds and ground creatures against the human orderings of pets, machines, and gardens.
Gophers operate the lowest tactical undercover missions tunneling into the earth. These result in mysterious disappearances of individuals in my planted rows. It is like some inverse straw that sucks the plant and air down into the earth leaving a neat little round hole where the plant use to be.
The raccoons, skunks and my cats run a peaceful sequence of territorial occupations with German train precision. My cats set the guard in day as I water, and stay at their posts to guard the territory (and annoy the dog packs with their paid walkers) facing down the meanest mutts behind chain link bravado. When night arrives, skunks exercise their garden easement. Unless mating, they simply amble through on their way to or from Lobos Creek. They do not explain their business. I do not ask. They only lingered one romantic evening in early spring when two choose our garden for a hooting and grunting love tussle. Ignoring their screams was about as effective as in a thin walled motel room. After the skunks, the Raccoons roam in well fed family groups until early morning divining out and digging up the table scraps that I have hidden for the earthworms.
One morning the ravens woke me. Even my cats bolted upright, thinking momentarily but edited away the next, that ravens were in bed with us. They were actually only feet from our heads but outside the walls, on the roof. Whatever the dispute, it was passionate and operatic. The screeching rose and the entire black bunch rolled off the roof to morph instantly into ravens scrambling for air. One flew away with something white, furry and newly dead in its beak, took cover in the magnificent cypress only to flee upon sight of the returning Red Tailed Hawk. There was no resistance. The Hawk simply took its kill gracefully and flew away (but I think I could see it chuckling…) I have seen this Red Tail on several occasions, patiently enduring aerial scoldings of this raven group. I have seen her circling with two or three ravens nagging her; swooping near but (not too near) to get her to back away from some well kept secret nesting site. One talon could finish any of those ravens but she just kept circling in big, blue, patient spirals.
No matter who is in control of the ground or airspace, my resident Mockingbird commands the airwaves. This Mockingbird with a jones for urban mimicry, has made his home in my garden. Seeking his sounds from us humans; he has nurtured a dangerous fascination for the urbane. He mocks fog horns, fire engines, city vehicles backup sirens, police cruisers, and ambulances. All this mockery is delivered loud and in triplicate. It is a strange staccato rendition that begins to sound like some crazed Starwars battle soundtrack. His mating symphony continues until the magical hour of 2am when (coincidentally?) the bars close.
I have found this even more fascinating when he began to mock me. Having a soft voice which is always the first to go hoarse in a trade show, I have perfected an exotic sound of my own that is half click, half quack. Having spent months trying to pronounce the name of an African tribe that employs this unique clicking sound in its language – the Xhosa. I can be loud when using this semi natural sounding call (in triplets) to let my cats know this is the time to come loping to me like faithful, little, canines. Or to start hiding from me, if I have offended them or for no particular reason just because they are not ready to come inside yet. It is a magnificent sound that even has deniability; my neighbors will not call me up later to ask me not to scream it under their window because they were trying to sleep. They simply roll over and attribute it to “forest sounds.” When the mocking bird began clicking Xhosa cat calls, I was charmed by my mockingbird’s extremely good taste and that I had arrived in some important way to be part of his edge ecosystem.
Then I found his feathers on the garage floor. The mocking bird had not just mocked a call but he had successfully achieved the intention of the call which was certainly was not his desire, he just wanted to make music.
The Mockingbird’s mate still lives and so do little baby mockingbirds. I could hear their practice triplets to Mom’s (sad?) assurances. My hunter cats got big kitty cowbells around their necks so they are now confined to hunting rats and mice. There is no shame for cats doing what cats do; learning to respect your own nature is what we are here to do. But one must be careful who and what you mock because
No comments:
Post a Comment