lion's tooth

avant-garde jazz and celestial relatives

A late Summer night… 🌼 photo by Jez Timms

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Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.

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Our front lawn has become a field of dandelions. ‘Dente de lion’—lion’s tooth—from the jagged-edged shape of the leaves. When these gorgeous yellow flowers go to seed and turn into white fluffy “clocks”, the Goldfinches collectively rejoice. The little Birds will spend all afternoon moving through the grass, heads bobbing as they tease miniature seeds from the clocks, second by second. Being on the ground so long, of course, leaves them vulnerable, and so whenever I am home I feel compelled to position myself at the kitchen table, from where I can watch both them and any neighbourhood cats which make the mistake of venturing up our drive. (Please, dearest cat-people, do not come for me. I have known and loved many a feline, and I have seen up-close what some of them do to wildlife. If a predatory animal, wild or domesticated, threatens the safety of another being on our watch we will not hesitate to intervene; water-guns blazing. The UK is home to over ten million domestic cats, and the Mammal Society estimates that 275 million prey are caught each year, 55 million of whom are Birds—but those estimates are based on returned prey, and other research shows that cats bring home less than a third of their total kills, so in reality the numbers are far higher. The unsubscribe button should be in the top righthand corner, if you need it.) Time always turns into dandelion syrup as I watch these little day labourers at work. I wonder what perching on a flower twice your size must be like. Profound, I imagine. I hope. They make me think of my five-year-old niece and her experience of the world. How, at the farmers market, there is a public piano cemented into the ground, opened only between the hours of 11 and 3, and how she likes to be there at 10.55, ready to show me the inner workings of the instrument and explain how the hammers strike the strings, who then sing the notes. She plays the piano like the love child of an avant-garde jazz musician and a blacksmith—bound by neither harmony nor moderation. At the weekend she performed while singing the lyrics to Mull of Kintyre by 1970’s soft-rock band Wings. There is a distinct type of joy to be experienced in watching a five-year-old sing, earnestly, “Far have I traveled, and much have I seen...”. Watching her, I become certain that whatever heaven is made of, so is she.

Early one morning, towards the end of last baby Bird season, I went into an outdoor aviary at the rescue centre. Seven juvenile Sparrows were perched on various branches inside, and one lay dead on the ground below. I personally find the losses of the juveniles even harder than I do the babies. To be within a wingbeat of returning to the wild… I picked up the little, cold Sparrow and held him to my chest in a cupped hand, needlessly shielding the others from the sight of him while I offered food to those who were still being support fed. The morning was all dappled light and paradox. The hilarity of the Sparrows which have nearly-but-not-quite outgrown their need for human assistance, who will accept food but make it clear that you’re an inconvenience to them, and the joy of young, eager beaks gaping widely as wingtips flutter with excitement, all blending, confusingly, with the deep ache at the barely-there weight of the palm-sized being, lost to the night. The full scope of life, held within a pocket of that most gentle hour. We may ascribe significance to whatever we wish. So, why not everything? That night I saw a shooting star, probably part of the Perseid meteor shower. I used the opportunity to wish the young Sparrow farewell and safe flight. It was one of those late Summer nights when stars are scattered across the sky like seeds, blown in the wind. There is something marvellously circular about wishing upon these celestial forges, where the elements that built both the Sparrow and I were once born. When we look to the skies for our ancestors, we will find them on any clear night.

We each have a lifetime, whatever that may look like, to practice how we approach the things larger than ourselves; be that dandelions, pianos, or the vastness of the unknown. The little beings whom I love suggest that presence and an unwavering curiosity are wise companions along the path. With enough practice, I wonder whether we might, one day, meet the ultimate unknown with presence, and an unwavering curiosity. And, I wonder what that might be like. Profound, I imagine.

I hope.

Yours in aimless flight…