Song bird

There is a lush pine tree right opposite my study that has spread quite majestically, both outwards and upwards. Every now and then its long branches, which are covered in green pointy leaves, sway gently in the breeze. Of all the other vegetation in my garden, this tree is the most eye-catching one. It is also the most musical one because it’s a favourite haunt for all the singing birds in my neighbourhood. 

I don’t know whether it is a robin, a blackbird, thrush, magpie or a cuckoo but to me, the loudest songbird outside my window sounds like a nightingale because all daylong it sings the sweetest of songs. Sometimes I wonder how such a small organism can manage to produce so much of melody. From its tiny voice box, that is. 

What I also marvel at is the sheer abandon and joy with which the little creature sings. Do these songs have any meaning in the bird world? In their own coded language, do they relate any tales of glory and valour perhaps, or stories of loss and sadness? Has anyone tried to decipher it? Being birdbrained is considered to be dimwitted, but have we really analysed this implication properly? If they can sing so tunefully, are we not being a bit too harsh on our feathered friends by assuming that they are of less than average intelligence? Is there any way to change this wrong impression? 

While I was searching for answers to these questions, my friend’s children paid me a surprise visit. These two identical three-year-olds waddled up to the pine tree and promptly started a musical conversation with the singing bird. “Tweet twoot” one twin chirped, and waited for the bird to respond. Within seconds came the reply, “twoot twoot”, from the branch overhead. The other twin gurgled with delightful laughter. It was her turn now to address the bird. She did so in a singsong tone and almost immediately came the birdy rejoinder. I watched this unbelievable communion between two human toddlers and a bird, with growing astonishment. Soon it was difficult to figure out whether the bird was copying the babies or they were imitating the bird. The only other witness to this incredible scene was the solitary pine tree that continued to give an exaggerated sway to its leafy branches, every now and then. 

As I escorted the children inside the house I caught sight of the songbird that had been entertaining them. It had a long tail, blackish grey plumage and an uncanny ability to mimic the sounds of other birds. It jumped from one bush to another before flying past me with a piercing whistle. “Maybe it is a mockingbird,” said the voice in my head. But were they not the inhabitants of North America? How did this one manage to fly across to Jordan? Was it not an impossibly long journey to undertake?

“I’m quite sure it’s a mockingbird,” I told my husband over lunch. 

“I think the twins are vegetarian,” he replied. 

“Why did it make this transatlantic trip,” I wondered aloud. 

“You better check with their mum,” my spouse said. 

“How would she know?” I queried. 

“You said you were feeding them some bird,” he clarified. 

“You never listen to me,” I protested. 

There was a minute of silence.

“Harper Lee,” he called out. 

No one answered. 

“It’s not nice,” he went on. 

“To do what,” I asked. 

“To kill a mockingbird,” he answered.