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Is it distressing, humbling or weirdly reassuring to learn that bullying is a cross-species phenomenon?
There was the fledging raven — bung leg, no tail feather yet — cowering in the corner of the lane, while two butcher boys, every bit as threatening as their name, stumped up to it like thugs from a Scorsese movie and attacked the fluttering thing. It was just like chancing upon two bullies and their hapless victim in the alley behind the school.
You just knew that, alone, it didn't stand a chance. The birds were unmoved by an approaching human and had to be beaten back themselves.
The fledgling was gentled under our fence and into our garden for a bit of protection, and then its large and dark-eyed parents returned and watched me intently from a high wall above. I offered the parents some small pieces of meat which they promptly took to their child. I was in defiance of the official wildlife advice about feeding native birds, I'm afraid, but if I want you to feel welcome and safe in my home, I'm going to feed you.
This was our second encounter with this luckless fledgling. It was blown out of its nest and into our front garden a week ago, and it stomped angrily up and down calling for its parents for a day, until they somehow managed to get it back up into their tree.
I watched them as they took turns to fly away for food and watch over their complaining offspring, their calm, noticing eyes taking in me as well: friend or foe? I hope they reached the right conclusion.
Our son named the bird Ivan. I wondered if perhaps it was female, but no one wanted to call it Ivanka.
When the young bird turned up again in the back lane, one leg was now damaged, maybe from its original fall, and its prospects seemed poor.
The parents were away when the butcher birds took their chance, and now Ivan sits in our garden on the bird bath, head cocked, the last of his baby fluff fluttering in the cold spring sunshine, waiting for mum and dad to return and figure out this new twist. So do we.
I'm trying not to over-interpret potential messages from the universe, but Ivan fluttered into our lives just as I had become fascinated with ravens on several social media accounts.
I had tried to befriend a few in the street before, but they disdained me as only this magnificent, blue-black feathered creature can.
I had been watching UK corvid rehabilitation expert, Nick Crawford's videos of life with Ragnar and Frith and privately wishing to also walk around with a brooding black bird on my shoulder that would grumble threateningly at anyone who crosses my path.
The intelligence of these birds is astonishing. They will use tools to open or break objects to release food and have been known to fetch stones to displace water in containers to allow them to drink.
They are beloved by writers, painters and poets as symbols of the supernatural and of deep, abiding memory. They seem to contain knowledge and sorrow. Charles Dickens had a pet raven, which was thought to be the inspiration for Edgar Allan Poe.
I love their powerful way of moving through the world, their fierce intelligence and analytical skills patiently applied to a world that makes life harder and harder for them.
I had to hope this little broken raven had come to us for a reason.
Given the needs of this lovely bird and its alarmed parents, I'll keep it short here and update you next week on whether Ivan survives the terrible threats of this world.
In the meantime, we have for you a serious look at the nature of neo-Nazi propaganda in Australia, and a great reason to slash your screen time.
More time to spend with birds is one of them. Go well. |
