The birdbrain

The birds are going crazy with their twittering, chirps and trills. There’s the cooing of a mourning dove. Robins are everywhere, especially in our back yard. But from the view in my backyard, all is underscored by the persistent drumming of a lone woodpecker.

Make that a displaced pecker.

It seems that every feathered friend in our neighborhood is jostling for top rank in nature’s symphony each morning. It starts early. Sometimes there’s enough spirited banter over the airwaves to awaken even a sound sleeper like me. I know what’s said about the early bird, but an hour or so before dawn just seems a bit … well, let’s just say even roosters know enough to wait until dawn.

But the birdbrain that takes the cake is this woodpecker which, for whatever reason, attacks our house guttering. Or is it the metal air vent coming out of the roof over the upstairs bathroom? It could even be the metal chimney flange, or perhaps it’s the furnace vent. Apparently it depends on his mood.

Somebody forgot to tell this woodpecker that bugs in the wormwood are not likely found in sheet metal. But he keeps hammering with a purpose.

Sometimes I daydream about being a bird. I’m soaring around the clouds utterly carefree, clearly looking down on all things below, above the noise and chaos. I don’t dream about flapping wings or whatever song I’d choose to sing. I’m totally satisfied to soar effortlessly and freely above all the noise.

But to tweet surely must offer its own joy. Why else would birds get up so early every morning just to express themselves? Maybe, like humans, they take themselves too seriously and ignore the songs of others or perhaps take such things for granted. They are birds, you know. They sing. That’s what birds do (besides poop on cars and especially on our backyard deck). It seems everyone has a song.

We can get used to the noise and focus on the wrong things. Even birds with beautiful songs don’t always get the attention they deserve. Not so with this woodpecker. When he starts his fling pecking on some metal thing, it commands attention. He seems to know this.

This is a little embarrassing. The neighbors are noticing. One even had the gumption to inquire about “our” unusual problem, as gossiping about “our” displaced pecker like some degenerate in the family. But just as I was about to respond, that rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat shot down my denial. It seems that this birdbrain has adopted us despite all objections. We’re stuck with him.

I suppose it’s entirely wrong to call this misguided creature a birdbrain. That’s not a very positive descriptor. In fact, there are many other birds that don’t appear to be the brightest bulbs in the backyard. But at least they’ve got one thing figured out. Except for the mocking birds, they sing one melody and hold true to its melody like it’s the love of their life.

Even the mockingbirds don’t attempt the rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat from this woodpecker.

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that the backyard grows suddenly silent whenever this woodpecker renews this incessant peppering. You’d think he’d give it up and, eventually, he retreats. But tomorrow the routine will renew and it’s “deja vu all over again.”

This displaced pecker is like a lot of people … persistently single-minded, oblivious to realities, unaffected by impossible odds and, above all, loud … as if being loud is some type of virtue that guarantees success. I’ll bet this preening woodpecker sees himself as a rooster, king to lord over all. He answers to no one and just keeps pecking away, even if he chooses to peck hard metal.

No doubt I’m not thinking my best so early in the morning and especially those times just before dawn’s early light when I’m unable to sleep. It’s just that that’s when it happens, at least whenever it’s not raining. First, a few soloists mark the start of the new day. Soon the chorus crescendos. It’s a free country; all are welcome to join into the symphony we call life. It’s just the natural way of things.

Suddenly the pecker rattles out another attack, assaulting our gutter or air vent or whatever he chooses to divert our attention away from our particular song. And we all stop and give attention to his mindless rat-a-tat-tat-tat. All the songbirds are mesmerized by the absurd audacity this birdbrain pecks out.

Even the owls, the eagles and doves alike stop singing to consider whatever rat-a-tat-tat this birdbrain braggart tweets out, all except the wanna-be woodpeckers. Many birds in the flock seem embarrassed that nobody sings out or risks chirping against him. Thus, by doing so, this displaced pecker remains secure at the top of the pecking order.

That makes sense, I guess. All things considered, you’d have to be a bit of a birdbrain to want to be in that position, wouldn’t you?