Birds of a feather

Married to an avid birder, father of a scientist who can speak fluent ornithology to his mother, I can not help but have an abiding interest. Sparrows and starlings are common enough to be ignored by most of us, let alone pigeons, poop machines whose only rivals are Canada geese (mind you, they are properly called Canada, not Canadian, geese).

I remember once going onto campus at Queens College when I was attending library school and seeing a commotion on the quad. A gaggle of students stood around a tree which didn't seem particularly remarkable; however, one of them was holding something in his hand, away from his body, as if he were recording or taking a picture (this was circa 2005, when flip phones abounded and Steve Jobs had yet to introduce his little device).

Indeed, that youngster was taking pictures, and his photographic object, and the object of his cohort's fascination, was a peregrine falcon methodically devouring a pigeon it had caught for lunch. I, too, was fascinated, and looked on for a bit. Not that I was blasé about it; I don't like pigeons much, and don't see them devoured all that often, but I did know about peregrines, and, well, as much as it's a cliché, we're New Yorkers: we see things.

A different time I remember seeing a pigeon flying through my field of vision faster than I had ever seen one go, more determined, and — as it turned out —more in a hurry, than I ever remember seeing one move; pigeons define the term lollygag. This one wanted to avoid being a meal for a peregrine falcon hot on its tail.

Seeing birds of prey in Queens isn't common, but it also isn't rare. I saw a red-shouldered hawk just a couple of days ago as I walked up 149th Street. Laura tells me of seeing other hawks in the neighborhood, not often, but not as rarely as seeing Eric Clapton strolling along Northern Boulevard.

No, I have never seen Eric Clapton walking on Northern Boulevard.

Today I took a walk along the promenade abutting Little Neck Bay. The thermometer climbed to 56º just days after it tickled 0º, but, no, there is no such thing as climate change.

There were many walkers and bicyclists and runners out basking in the sunshine of what seemed, if one basked long enough with eyes closed, an early April day. Some folks simply sat and basked. It was a great day for basking in that simply gorgeous warm sun, especially so after the Polar Vortex which struck us last week. (Thermometer read seven degrees in Flushing on Wednesday 30 January 2019 at 11.44 that cold night.) I hate the cold. I have lived in the States since the days LBJ was a popular president, and in all those years, I have never grown used to the cold. I adore hot weather, and can easily tolerate high humidity (well, easily might stretch a point, but I can deal with it) much more easily than I can with any level of cold. My favorite way to enjoy snow is from indoors, and my favorite winter sports are those other people engage in, those weirdos.

Oh, I can deal with the cold, in limited amounts of time, the briefer the better, as far as I'm concerned. I remember once Laura and I were on a Mexican vacation in Zihuatanejo (before I had any idea of Shawshank) and we'd gone for an afternoon outing to Barra de Potosí on the recommendation of a chef we met in Zihua. It was a lovely spot, the sort of place which makes you rack your brain to fathom a way you can buy a piece of property there and figure out a way to just retire. We had a delicious seafood lunch (we mentioned the name of Rofo, our friend the chef, and we were treated as if we were old friends), hung out a bit, then went for a boat ride in the lagoon. Our guide, a local young fisherman, gave us a grand tour; when we told him we were from Nueva York he shuddered: in winter, he told us, it gets chilly here, so we pull a sheet over ourselves to get warm. I didn't know if I wanted to hate or envy him.

The sky was a beautiful blue, with nary a cloud in it. I could see the tall buildings in Westchester, beyond Coop City, Bronx, and beyond that, too. I wasn't sure if I were seeing Connecticut, but I could imagine seeing for ten miles.

On such beautiful days I'm reminded why blue is my favorite color. The sky and the sea are both blue, quite different shades. My dream car when I was young was a midnight blue GTO. I stopped idolizing cars and my dreams run in other directions, but I very much adore the color blue. Not coincidentally, one of my favorite Ellington tunes is Mood Indigo.


I swung down and past Fort Totten. That's a subject for another day, and a fascinating one, including its nuclear missile silos.

Then I saw a red-tailed hawk as I strolled along the bay.