DISEMBODIED HANDS

I am on the writing porch watching the flycatchers. I know I’ve mentioned them several times, but everyday they seem new. They even come back every year and they never fade into the background despite their dusty gray-brown feathers. They are small and have a slight peak to the feathers on their heads and a cream colored breast. Watching them watching for bugs is a high-wire, daredevil act in the daylight. 

There is before you a small, plain bird on a naked branch or garden stake. You see it’s head suddenly move and jerk at the oddest spasmodic angles and if that weren’t weird enough it suddenly does a dead man’s drop into a cartwheel in the air just a foot or two from the ground. Its finger feathers articulate in and out. It whips a lightning fast fan dance with its slim tail. It ties an invisible sailor’s knot in the air and then it’s back on its perch like nothing happened, except now it’s swallowing a pesky green thrip. And then it does it again making a new knot you didn’t know was possible. The flycatcher's moves are as fluid as otters’ and leopard seals’ underwater, like they are in the same dance company. They look like the disembodied gloves of a magician in midair practicing sleight of hand for the Olympics and they are all Olga Corbets. 

It’s funny how many creatures in North America seem very brown and ordinary compared to more tropical places, but if you dig deep they all have a special gift, no matter how unassuming. Every single one of them. This is a lesson I never tire of learning or reminding my friends about. We are pretty excellent mammals with such a broad range of beautiful skills. 

What would David Attenborough highlight about you on your personal nature show?

The writing porch…