Yellow Sparrow

By Marie Masters

It’s going to be a long winter,
And what will the poor birds do then?
They’ll fly to the south
With a worm in their mouths,
And tuck their heads under their wings,
The poor things.

Dad only sang one song to me when I was a child. He usually left the singing to Mom, and with good reason. His deep, gravely voice sounded like a late-night disk jockey spinning jazz.

His grandmother had sung it to him as a first lesson in compassion for one of nature’s most frail yet sturdy creatures. The song’s simple up-and-down lilt mimicked the undulating flight pattern of migrating birds mentioned in the lyrics.

Dad said to always feed the birds, and I do. It’s the reason I keep the apple tree in my yard, despite its dropping garbage cans full of debris that has to be cleaned up and dragged to the curb. Birds love the flower seeds and fruit, and so it stays.

My error was thinking that birds only take.

A few winters ago on a visit to my parents’ house, I looked out Dad’s window at the feasting birds on the ground. That’s when I spotted the yellow sparrow. Actually, it was a yellow and green parakeet escapee that had joined an unsuspecting group of ordinary brown birds.

It was one of the largest flocks of sparrows I’d ever seen. Maybe more birds traveling together meant they kept warmer in wintertime, I reasoned. They dotted the snow around the feeder with their jumping bodies that twitched this way and that to ensure they got every morsel. As for their tropical counterpart, he stood out like a pineapple in a bowl of plain pears. But none of them seemed to notice he was unique. They pecked at the seeds; so did he. They curiously tipped their heads toward the sky; so did he. They let the wind wash over them and fluff them up; so did he. They all chirped happily.

By some Darwinian miracle, the birds had become compatible through braving the elements together. Two very different types of birds had built a bond out of necessity. There was no pettiness and fighting among varieties of the species, just a common struggle to survive. My whole family was quieted by the spirit of cooperation between the chattering masses and one outrageously yellow-green misfit. None of us said a word.

Then, beckoned by an undetectable call, the flock rose up as one feathery blanket and coated a nearby cedar tree by perching its crew upon snowy branches like real-life ornaments. They bobbed there a few seconds, seemingly taking a final head count before flying to their next respite and another meal.

The yellow sparrow was in total harmony with the ill-matched flock he’d chosen, and he became lost in the fluttering camouflage as it whooshed up into the air. I quickly lost sight of him.

Yes, I keep a place in my yard just for birds. They help themselves to the copious fruit and tight-laced nesting branches in the apple tree. There’s a birdbath below. And I toss out breadcrumbs, especially in winter.

People say I would attract more exotic birds if I put out designer food, houses, and feeders. To that, I just smile and say, “I know.”
I simply find all birds remarkable.

Marie Masters is a Southeastern Michigan-based writer, who often takes cues from nature and its many blessings. She can be contacted at mariemasters@earthlink.net.