The birds are having words on Douglass Street.
This is a common occurrence, but this morning it seems they are having a bird bitch fest.
My late mother in law, Maria Prytula, gave us a magnolia tree when we bought our house and it has grown beautifully over the past 24 years. In the spring it brings forth glorious magenta buds that bloom pale pink. People stop and stare and even photograph.
One of the added benefits of the magnolia is that it is home to a host of sweet birds that arrive each spring – I call them the birds of Douglass Street – that serenade us in the morning (our bedroom faces the magnolia) and remind us of Alexander Pope’s words, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”
This morning, though, there must have been a fight – it certainly was no conversation – between the birds. They were louder than I’ve ever heard. Were they arguing about the human condition right now? Were they fighting over food? Did one insult another? I wish I knew because I have never heard them sound that loud.
In a previous lifetime, say last month, I used to marvel that Brooklyn can sometimes be so quiet that you can hear a bird sing. It was a matter of timing; between traffic lights and usually at a certain time of the day – say 1 PM on a Thursday – where there simply wasn’t much going on with the humans. This might be the point at which you could hear the birds and marvel at the fact that you were in the city.
But this morning I welcome their cacophony. Whatever it is they are loudly tweeting about, it drowns out everything else and gives me a moment of happy respite.