Back Garden Blackbirds
An explosion of song erupts from the other side of the garden fence. Loud, sharp, urgent. Followed by a small black arrow, wings folded compact against its body, a glint of gold, streamlined and low. It vanishes into next door’s garden, heading straight for the bird feeders I imagine.
The blackbirds that visit our garden have a taste for the dramatics.
They always announce their arrivals and departures, they like to show off their elegant songs from any high (and sometimes not so high) points, when they leave they do so in a flurry of feathers, turning tail and storming off like someone has offended them.
But, that being said, they are slowly becoming more trusting.
Mr. Blackbird (yes, original I know) will quite happily forage food from right under my feet. As long as I stay still and don’t make any sudden movements, he will scurry across the grass clucking away to himself as though he’s the only one in the garden.
To watch him on his quest for cuisine is slowly becoming my favourite way to spend an afternoon. He’s efficient in his work, packing suet crumbs into his golden beak, or finding a particularly large worm and folding it up like a letter before dashing back over the fence to feed his young.
I’ve tried to count the number of trips he makes, but he comes and goes so often that it’s hard to keep track, and to be honest it’s just nice to enjoy his company. The thud of his feet on the sun-bleached fence, the sharp trill of notes before he heads back to his favourite patch in the shade, where he rustles the grass with wire thin feet as he hops along.
Mrs. Blackbird is a little less trusting. She doesn’t come so close and prefers to spend her time at the top of the garden away from us. Her feathers are a beautiful chocolate brown, rich and warm but she’s much quieter than her husband (boyfriend/life partner/whatever), a gentler approach. Either that or she’s exhausted from raising the little ones.
We know they have young because one wet Saturday afternoon a steady stream of barely there chirps floated in through an open window. At the back of the garden, under the spikey green shrub I never know the name for, was a baby blackbird. Whilst most of its plumage was neat and slick, there were still wispy tufts of down on top of its head. Its wide gape gave it an almost confused look. Unsure of how it ended up in this strange garden, on this strange surface, next to this strange shrub but pleased, none the less, with its bold attempts at freedom.
I try not to worry about baby birds in the garden, especially if they are fully fledged and have all their feathers but I can’t help it. I worry that they won’t be able to get back to their nest, I worry about the council estate cats that lurk behind the compost bin ready to pounce, I worry they will get waterlogged or mum and dad won’t find them. So, I watched this one extra carefully. Peering through the window, everything crossed that soon enough it would ruffle its feathers and head home.
Soon enough Mr. Blackbird appeared. That soft clucking noise rising from his throat, soothing, calling to the little one that had somehow found its way into our garden. I like to think he was gently praising this youngster for its bold behaviour, rewarding it for taking the chance to explore – this one will go far he thought to himself as he rounded up the fledgling and led him back home. That is enough excitement for one day.
We haven’t seen the young since that wet afternoon, but I’m sure they are fine because every so often that thin piping call drifts over the fence and finds my ears. Mr.Blackbird still makes numerous trips, back and forth, from garden to garden, always returning to the end house with the huge privet hedge; a hedge that would make an ideal home for any blackbird family.
Admittedly I’ve never paid this much attention to the blackbirds before.
I’ve always acknowledged their presence and enjoyed waking up to that soulful song that seeps into my bedroom with the growing morning. But I never stopped to watch. Not carefully. Not well enough to hear the soft clucks or witness the quizzical head tilt they manage when listening for worms.
I like to think that has changed now. I like to think that I will always pay attention to this often, over-looked and under-rated garden treasure.
