You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

STARLINGS

The Starling is an invasive speckled blackbird. It has neither beautiful plumage nor a lovely song. It was introduced from Europe in 1890 when a few of them were released at a Shakespearean festival in New York City’s Central Park. Over the following century, these little scavengers have spread across north and South America.

I paid little attention to starlings until I had a big beautiful fig tree. Each Summer I would patiently wait for the delicious fruit to mature. As harvest time approached the starlings would descend on my tree. I would consider it fair enough if each bird were to devour one fig and, satiated, fly away. But instead they peck at a fig and then move on to peck another, and another, until most of the figs were ruined. I hated the little peckers.

My opinion of them shifted, one evening while having dinner in a restaurant built on piling over the Columbia River. I sat next to the window. As I waited for my dinner to be served, I admired the blue green twilight settle onto the Columbia River. I noticed a dozen birds circling high over the river. It seemed to be a curious behavior, so I continued watching. As they circled more birds joined. Soon they were joined by other flocks forming an increasingly massive number. They flew in a gracefully synchronized, swirling cloud. My dinner was served but I paid no attention to it. They would flow in the way the white water of a river finds its way around a large submerged rock. I was mesmerized by this fascinating avian display in the air above me. Suddenly, the flock streamed straight toward me. It seemed that my window was certain to be shattered. At the last moment, before impact, the lead birds abruptly dipped down and flew under the building. The flock followed in a stream as if poured from the sky through an invisible funnel.

In a moment they were all gone from view. I was left shaken and exhilarated. I asked the waiter and was told “They do this for several nights, each autumn before migrating south. They roost in the piling and girders under the restaurant.” “What kind of birds are they?” I asked. “Starlings.” he replied over his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen.

Starlings? I thought. Those ugly little birds that don’t sing? Starlings fly like that? At that moment, while my meal was getting cold, my opinion of starlings was elevated. Starlings were not as worthless as I had thought.

Fifteen years later, an event in the spring of 2022 elevated my view of starlings even further. I was in the process of renovating a dilapidated house in Astoria Oregon. I had removed a rusty porch light from the soffit above the entry door. This left a round hole four inches in diameter where the fixture had been. My intention was to replace it with a new fixture. A few weeks after removing it, I noticed spears of grass and twigs on the porch below the hole. I watched to see what was bringing them. Before long a starling arrived with nest-building material in her beak. After a brief pause on the power line to the house she dove down from her perch, building speed in order to performing an exquisite feat of flying up into that hole. She would focus the force of her momentum on that hole and at the last instant fold her wings and pass up through the hole. This she did with a beak full of twigs and grasses. The twigs and grasses left on the porch were apparently from early attempts. She had apparently learned that she would have to limit the length of her nest building material.

My plan was to replace the fixture and not to be the landlord for a family of starlings. I found some chicken wire mesh and stuffed it in the hole to keep the starlings out. The next day, when I returned to work on the house, I found the chicken wire on the porch beneath the hole. I put it back into the hole This time I shoved it in more tightly than before. When I returned the following day. The chicken wire was gone. Looking around I saw it in the yard a good distance from the hole. I walked over to retrieve it. As I returned to put it back in the hole. This time with screws. I was surprised to see the starling sitting on the wire. She was watching as I approached with the chicken wire ball in my hand. When I was within ten feet of her, I stopped to see what she would do. She stared at me and then began making chirping, clicking, and other noises. At the end of each series of noises she would pause and look at me. Then she would continue with her speech. Each sequence sounded like a unique sequence of distinctive sounds. Her vocalizations were strangely like sentences. She was trying to communicate with me. She spoke to me for more than a minute. While I could not understand her language, I could understand what she was telling me. She was saying that she had eggs to be laid. She had invested a lot of energy in building this nest. There wasn’t time to find another place and to build another nest. She said it was heartless of me to deny her access to her home. She sat there on that wire, looking directly at me as she spoke. She stopped talking. With her eyes still fixed on me, she waited for my reply.

She had convinced me that she should be allowed to continue with her nest. I was also forced to recognize that here is an intelligent creature with a plan, the will, and courage to stand her ground and argue her case. It doesn’t matter that they don’t sing I thought. They do something far better. They talk. I had become an admirer of starlings. Tossing the ball of chicken wire aside I told her “OK!”. Satisfied that we had come to an amicable understanding, she flew away.

Soon she and Mr. Starling quit building their nest. About twenty days later they began flying back and forth feeding their chirping hatchlings. Eventually, when I would look up into the hole, I would see the heads of the two chick’s looking down at me. As the days of summer grew shorter I noticed that the activity at the hole had ceased. The chicks had fledged. Over the next two weeks I occasionally noticed four starlings scratching around in my neighbor’s yards. Then one afternoon four starlings landed on the power line. They were in the same place she had been when delivering her plea to occupy my house. They were facing the soffit with the hole. After briefly pausing there, they flew away. I have not seen them since. I imagine that they have gone to join a large flock of these enigmatic birds performing synchronized flight on their way to South America for the winter. Starlings are amazing birds. By the way, their feathers are not black. They are a beautiful shimmering iridescent dark color.