Bird Watchers

Bird Watchers

A crow told me not to trust owls while I was waiting to cross the street. I threw him the last of my bagel as payment.

I’d never spoken to a crow before, never heard words in a voice that reedy and wise.   It gulped down the bread and peered up at me, its scaly little toes wrapped around the edge of the curb.

“No owls! And be nice to your friends,” it added, just as the light turned. It hopped a few steps behind as I began to cross, then took wing. I stopped in the street to watch its glossy tail feathers disappear into the distance, until a white camper van with a smudged front window began honking and I hurried to the other side.

Lynette made it five words into an explanation of her most recent breakup before vomiting all over the table in the back corner of the dingy, student-lined cafe we’d chosen to catch up in. She’d just tumbled into the seat across from me, ten minutes late, pouring a mini bottle of Bailey’s into her coffee cup and taking loud, manic gulps. 

I thought about the crow while I threw tissues over the mess, apologized to the baristas, put my arm around my friend and guided her into an Uber. It had told me to be nice, so I sent her a text later calling her ex dirty names until she answered back with a string of cry-laugh emojis. 

The next morning, I opened the window to a galaxy of sparkling black eyes. The nearest tree was flocked with starlings, their iridescent plumage shifting in the light.  I stared back at them until they lifted in a cloud and darted towards the window. 

I slammed it shut, sure all those open yellow beaks were coming for my eyes. Instead, they carried stones, shiny pebbles, bits of worn brown glass. One by one, they dropped their bounty on the windowsill. When the last bit fell, its finder rapped its beak on the window and flew back to perch with its cohort.

I peered carefully through the glass and saw four words spelled out in flotsam.

GOOD JOB. NO OWLS.

I was starting to get the point. 

I saw no owls, but every other bird became a worry. Blue jays, cardinals, sparrows. At least the geese and seagulls kept their distance.

On the way to yoga, a robin straddled a crack in the sidewalk, interrupting my regular Monday evening route. When I tried to step around, it hopped into my ankle, head bobbing on its fox-fronted neck.

I looked to see if anyone was watching before greeting it. The bird flew at my face, chirruping shrilly until I turned away. When I tried to turn back, it persisted until finally I gave in and took the long way, so annoyed I didn’t even notice the sound of sirens nearby. 

I heard them again later on my newsfeed. A man had abducted a woman, snatching her on the loneliest corner on my Monday evening route. She was about my size, hair box-braidedmuch like mine. We had the same pecan shell skin tone. She’d been let out of the back of the abductor’s camper van, unharmed, a mile or so away. All he’d said was, “you’re not her.”, before speeding off. Police had been alerted. 

A picture of the suspect had been posted —a young man with shaggy dark hair and a nice face. I didn’t know him. I wondered if the birds did. In the photo he stood awkwardly in front of a white camper van, his upright thumb covering part of   the owl painted on his sweatshirt. 

I began leaving bread on the windowsill for the starlings and speaking kindly to the robins when they hopped into my way. 

A white camper van slowed next to me as I jogged towards the subway, running late. The window had only rolled down a sliver when a maelstrom of birds surrounded me, flapping and twittering.  In the center was a crow, who flew to my ear and screamed run. When I got to the station’s entrance the birds rose away from me in a great feathered cloud, and when I glanced back, the van was at the curb. I slipped underground and took an Uber back later. When I got home the starlings were perched on my windowsill in the dark, watching. I greeted them, and they flew off into their tree to sleep, satisfied. 

There was a message from them when I woke up. CAREFUL, it said. Then, NO PARKS NOW.

Another time, the rocks spelled out CHANGE HAIR. SAFER.

I opened the window and swept them away. I did not change my hair. 

I was growing tired of the absurdity of birds. 

I tried to tell Lynette, but what could I really say? The birds wouldn’t come with me to the police station to make a statement, either. I’d asked once and they’d all flown away, one crow making a sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

When the starlings next came bearing stones, I opened the window and thrust a broom at them. They screeched in alarm and flew back to their tree, where they perched in a huddle, glaring at me.

The next day, still more advice. 

GET MACE. 

I did not. 

I started ignoring the birds, pretending their friendly trills and attention-begging flutters were normal. Nobody noticed. Nobody had noticed before, either. 

I didn’t see the sparrow on the bike path until I had already hit it. When I realized what I’d done I got off my bike and walked it back the way I came, looking for the little brown body on the ground, my eyes hot and wet. 

“I’m sorry,” I called. “I know I’m not supposed to be here. Oh God, did I kill you?”

Another sparrow flew out of the dusk and bounced off my shoulder. I heard it land in the bushes that lined the path. Something black and blurry rose in the dusk. Another crow. 

“What’s going on?” I asked it. “Is everything okay?”

Nonono it croaked, speeding away. The other daytime birds had all fallen silent, replaced by the noise of cicadas. Out of the buzz, another noise rose. An owl’s hoot. 

I saw it just before I threw my leg over the seat of my bike and pedaled away.  A white barn owl on the roof of a camper van idling at the park’s edge, its head spinning to watch me go just as its call disappeared under the sound of the engine revving up.