Introductions
Birds Overheard: Issue 6
It was only mid-morning, but the air already felt warm and thick. If any breeze stirred over Casco Bay, the pine and hemlock kept it out, allowing only diffuse light to pass between their branches. We had come to this chain of islands in coastal Maine to make a public television program with a local novelist, and I had spent sunrise filming in the forest around his home. As I headed back for breakfast, I could hear moss compress under my feet. Then I heard a shout.
Jacob stood on the dock landing, dripping wet and surrounded by our crew. In his arms he held an osprey chick, cradling its body against his stomach with one hand to pin the wings, and grasping its feet with the other. Eight ebony talons blossomed from his fist like a bouquet, each as long as my thumb. I had never been this close to a raptor before. Each contour feather bristled on its neck, like a hundred overlapping brushes dipped in cream.
An osprey specialist, Jacob had joined our crew to film a scene about a nesting pair who returned each year to the same snag near our character’s home. While scouting the nest by boat, he saw a bald eagle swoop in and snatch the chick as its parents hunted nearby. Alarm calls exploded from the trees, and within seconds, the parents closed on their enemy and attacked from above. Outnumbered, the eagle released its prize, and the chick plummeted into the sound. When he saw the parents return to their nest, Jacob piloted his boat to the point of entry and dove in. As he asked our producer for permission to drive three hours to the nearest rehabilitation center, the bird in his arms gazed at us with an intensity that masked any traces of fear.
When we meet someone new, their name becomes a key—a handful of syllables unlocking the possibility of connection and shared memory. Names help us see; without them, faces eventually blur, and the individual is lost. In my experience, this is also true of wildlife. Growing up in San Diego, I didn’t know the names of most local plants and animals. Even into my late twenties, when I glanced at the undeveloped spaces between neighborhoods, all I saw was an undifferentiated expanse of brown. Imposter syndrome sharpened my vision: a few days into a job at a natural history film company, I realized I was out of my depth. Surrounded by trained biologists and struggling to keep up, I began learning to identify the species near my home.
The more I learned, the more I saw. Shrubby hills resolved into stands of lemonadeberry, laurel sumac, and bladderpod. Snowy egrets stalked topsmelt in Famosa Slough as pintails dabbled nearby. Each species’ name made its owner visible, and as I spent more time around these organisms, they gradually became woven into my memories. When I see the tissue-thin petals of Matilija poppies, I think about the week my grandmother died. Yerba Santa’s fat, fuzzy leaves evoke the night at Torrey Pines when I saw bioluminescence for the first time, and as I jog beneath the osprey perched on Sunset Cliffs bridge, I remember that morning in Maine when a chick fell from the sky and lived. Although there are still thousands of species I have yet to meet, after a few years of learning, I can usually spot a friend. I’m always in good company, even when I’m alone.
Birds Overheard is a column and linocut series published in Mail Mag, a monthly zine by Burn All Books.
