tyrannus tyrannus

The other day I spotted a new bird perched on my shepherd’s hook, next to the finch feeder. He was entirely unfinchlike, having a big domed black head, largish beak, and appearing to have donned a tuxedo to join me for coffee. I’d never seen such formal wear in my yard, so I grabbed my bird book, paged through it, all the while stealing glances out the window at my visitor.

Just as I got to the flycatcher section, my guest turned to show off his white tipped tail. Aha. Eastern Kingbird, also known by his menacing Latin name, Tyrannus tyrannus. Voice: a rapid sputter of high bickering notes. Not unlike some people I used to work with.

I watched as Mr. Tyrannus fluttered upwards, snared a bug from the underside of a pine branch, then flew off to the fields. Stop back again, sir.

Last week I walked with my mother through a grove of trees, seeking out a rock pile at the other side. We were looking for a cover for an old well. Though we didn’t find a suitable cover, we saw lots of wildness. Mangled old trees.

“What’s this one?” I’d ask, pointing up at a gnarled trunk, branches obscured by broad leaves.

My mother would look up, shield her eyes from an errant sunbeam, then promptly trip over a fallen tree hidden in the tall grasses.

“I’m not sure. And I can’t look up.”

I stopped asking because, quite unfortunately, neither of us is terribly well-schooled in botany.

I pointed to a large chunk of mushrooms growing on the base of a tree, wondered aloud if it were edible. I tore off a chunk of it, sniffed it.

“Smells like fish.”

I ran my fingers across the fleshy, moist gills and handed it to my mother, who concurred with my assessment. “It does. It looks like something that would grow underwater.”

Uncanny, that. A sea creature, thousands of miles from the sea, contentedly living in my trees.