The birds, at least the vocal ones, are
returning to Houston. One morning before dawn I heard a male cardinal calling, a
block north of our street, far enough away to mute its brassiness and lend it a
plaintive sound. On campus, in one of the water oaks, I heard a robin noodling its
compact, Ornette Coleman-like song in a minor key. On a walk to a far corner of
the university I heard a brief, high-pitched, complex song coming from a grassy
field near the Texas Medical Center. It buzzed like an insect in high summer.
On a fence I saw a dab of bleached brown, a savannah sparrow, a bird so small
and drab you might mistake him for a dead leaf. The Scottish poet Norman MacCaig (1910-1996) starts “Sparrow” (Collected Poems, 1990)
with ironic bluntness: “He's no artist.” “Ironic” because the rest of the
poem says otherwise, though the sparrow is no nightingale:
“He carries what learning he has
lightly -- it is, in fact, based only
on the usefulness whose result
is survival. A proletarian bird.
No aesthete, he’s more like Orwell –
bluff, unambiguous, purposeful.