Grackle

"The Grackle died," she announced as she pushed open the front door of the old farm house. Cold air streamed in. She spoke loudly, just shy of a shout, "I found his little body lying on the snow, next to the food and water that was put out for the ducks."

"I guess the cold finally got to him," she continued as she heeled off her snow boots then flicked them with her toes onto the shoe tray. "Anyway, the birds are all tucked in for the night."

A Grackle had been loitering around the homestead since mid summer. Most of its tail feathers were missing, others were damaged. It could fly, awkwardly, from ground to low hanging tree branch or fence post. Mostly it sauntered about on spindly legs over grass and ground.

The Grackle was a he, probably young, somewhat short and plump, although that could have been an illusion due to his sparse tail feathers. His legs seemed short for a grackle. Grackles tend to be long and lean.

She took off her coat, hung it up, sat herself down at the kitchen table. Her man sat across the way, close to the wood stove.

"You still cold?"

"Yeah. I think it'll take awhile to thaw out. Work was mighty cold today. I'm sure glad we have a warm house. I always feel bad for the birds when it gets cold like this."

"I'm sorry he's gone. Poor Grackle, I liked him."

They both did. The Grackle had become a fixture around the farm yard, like the ducks or chickens. He could be spotted mingling with the diverse soiree of domesticated fowl, a tiny speck among boulders, neck cocked and craned, looking up at them, eavesdropping on their birdy conversations.

When ever they tended the birds the people would keep an eye out for the Grackle. Invariably he would be there, somewhere; be it copping some seed in the hen's coop, standing lonely in the grass, perched atop a stack of composting hay, or sitting on a nearby fence watching the goings on of chicken, duck, dog, or person. Sometimes he could be heard rustling through fallen leaves underneath the bare trees on the far side of the house.

He never cackled a complaint or trilled an alarm like other birds. If an intruder or threat approached he simply hopped away, silently, quickly, but not to quick as to appear rushed or fearful.

His life, like most of us, alternated between the pedestrian and the portentous. The farm cat would hesitate as he meandered by, stare in feline contemplation at the little black bird, swish his tail, and then proceed on. Though that may say more about the cat than the Grackle. A dozen times the tiny fellow became imprisoned in one of the live traps left out to capture ravenous hordes of chipmunks. Grackle was freed, but not without a fleeting notion of a supposedly more merciful  and conclusive fate.

Grackles are social, loud, gregarious. Generally they are not well thought of. Flocks large enough to eclipse the sun can descend on grain fields and decimate an entire crop. This one bucked the stereotype and kept to himself. By choice, by need, or, perhaps cruelly ostracized, who could say? For what ever reason he was a loner. He lived, survived, toughed it out on his own in a friendless dire landscape. What was there not to like about the little guy? He was a gamer. He was low maintenance  and his presence added something different, something out of the ordinary to the ongoing routine of animal care.

As the days and months passed an element of drama built.
"Have you seen him today?"
"How did he look?"
"Who was he with? The ducks or the chickens?"
"Do you think he'll be okay?"

Then as winter stormed in and nightly temperatures dropped concerns changed from "have you seen him today?" to one of survival.  The belief was that if he could make it through the darkest autumn months and beyond the coming solstice then with luck he may survive to see the light and warmth of spring.

The doors to the garage were left open. Perhaps he'd find a roost, or a snug corner to tuck himself into away from the chill of overnight winds. More likely he took shelter in thick boughs of a nearby evergreen.

But Grackles lack the down of a duck or the cold weather plumage of a chicken and though he fluffed out his feathers as best he could he looked as if the cold and the snow were taking their toll.



By the end of summer when days grow shorter and the heat finally wanes birds of all manner begin their migration south. Some come and go one or two at a time, or, for safety and support, they gather in large flocks and take to the wing in large numbers. A variety of species stop by the old farm on their way through. They mingle with the ducks and chickens. Perhaps they feel safe hopping around among the long legs of the bigger birds. More likely it is the grain that attracts them.  They eat their fill of spilled seed or they sneak into coops and shelters and steal, which probably isn't the best way to put it, what ever they can, storing much needed energy on easy pickings before they hightail it off into the blue sky towards the distant horizon. The chickens and ducks pay them little heed.

As every season is different so are the years that seem to fly by. This year an over abundance of Grackles, Blue Jays and Red Wing Blackbirds stayed around the farm for weeks. While the Grackles and Red Wings feasted on free grain, the Blue Jays denuded ripening pear trees and stripped vines that were loaded heavily with plump purple grapes. Meanwhile countless little brown jobs like Juncos and White Crown Sparrows picked their way through the remains of the garden.

Blue Jays screeched and cawed and caused a ruckus more annoying than the predawn crowing of an early rising rooster. Red Wings soared in from the sidelines looking like jets landing on aircraft carriers. Grackles by the score perched in trees directly overhead feed stations. They plopped down to the feast below like falling apples. There was a mishmash of competition and cooperation. Who could fault them. The pickings were easy and ripe.

As the days shortened the wild birds became fewer in number until there remained only one, a Grackle, stunted, with a spindly tail and a beautiful iridescent blue head who walked more than he flew. Standing alone on the barren earth he watched with yellowy eye and tilted head the others of his kind leave in large groups. And he bid them farewell.

Then he watched the leaves on all the trees turn from green to a hundred shades of red, orange and yellow. He watched the leaves wither and fall. He felt the winds change. They came rushing in from the north bringing at first a cold, driving rain, then snow, wet and sticky. He watched frost cover pumpkin and kale and he watched muddy puddles freeze over. His world was the farm yard. His friends the chickens and ducks. His admirers, the people.

He died on a cold November's day, a year when winter came early and the snows covered the ground.