Birds of Feather

As I run down the road in the morning, I often marvel at the easy
beauty of this small river valley, and wonder how the natural world
relates to my personal sphere. I am always looking for a message from
the animals, trees, rocks or anything else that may have something to
say. It is probably naive and self-centered to think I can properly
interpret whatever signs there may be, but I can't help trying.

Many years ago, my torts professor, Charles Luther, asked those of us
in his first year class if we thought rocks and trees had rights. At
the time I was confused by the question, and worried it was yet another
trick designed to convince us we did not have the appropriate tools to
master complex legal issues.

As we came to learn, however, Chuck was a dyed-in-the-wool
conservationist, and dead serious. Our love for him brought us a
greater understanding of the wider world, and a closer relationship
with the environment. As a result of his tutelage, I have come to
realize that rocks and trees not only have rights, they have a life
independent of their two-legged cohabitants.

A few weeks ago, I was plodding eastward towards the sunrise when I
spotted a flock of Canada geese descending over the red rock cliffs,
obviously aiming for the sanctuary of the Jones farm. From the way they
were careening from side to side, squawking loudly and incessantly, I
began to think they may have had a hard night of carrying on, and were
trying to get home before sunup. Their tightly defined V had become a
disheveled W as they skittered through the sky on final approach. I
became concerned there may be more than a few injured geese if they
didn't quickly pull themselves together.

By the time I made my way back to the trading post, the geese were
satisfactorily settled, eating alfalfa stubble and strutting around the
hay field. From the looks of things, they had all made the descent
safely. As the vision of their flight over the bluffs replayed in my
mind, I began to think the management of the flock was similar to the
management of the trading post; wild and often out of control.

The following week, I was once again out on my morning run when I
spotted hundreds of blackbirds winging their way from one tree to the
next. Once the flock was settled, one of the birds would become
dissatisfied with its perch for one reason or another and lift off,
unsettling the entire bunch. The birds would then take flight, circle
the adjacent trees and reestablish themselves after a few moments. This
cycle was repeated countless times as I progressed down the highway.

It was at that point I realized the geese and blackbirds were clearly
sending me a message about our trading post management. After
thoroughly analyzing the situation, I became satisfied the birds were
right and determined it was time for a change; things were going to be
different at the store.

This morning, I picked up a copy of a book written by a local author
who had unexpectedly and prematurely passed on. I have been troubled by
her death, because I had let local politics get in the way of knowing
her. She was gone, and I had only now discovered the beauty of her
words. There was much I wanted to say to her that would go unsaid, and
many questions I wanted to ask that would remain unanswered.

As I read her latest book, I realized that she, like Chuck, was
genuinely in touch with the natural world. I am not sure what it was in
her verses that struck me so deeply, but all of the sudden I knew the
birds had not been referring to the trading post management at all;
they were commenting on my life.

I am the one who bounces from side to side as I walk down the hall of
life, scuffling and scraping myself as I go; I am the one who staggers
through life like a drunk who has had too much party and too little
sleep the night before; I am the one who bounces from project to
project, like a stone skipping across the pond, sinking to the depths
only to be dragged back to the surface and cast upon the water again,
the cycle repeating itself endlessly; and I am the one struts around my
hay field honking and carrying on like I know everything and listening
to no one.

Those birds had known all along, and I just didn't see it until now.
There is only one thing to do; tomorrow I am petitioning to join the
flock. If I can only find a way to fly, I will fit right in. I wonder
how it will be living on the farm, and what I will do when the the
weather warms and the geese return to their northern home. I will have
to get a down jacket, some Gortex and start working on my Canadian
visa. After years of searching for a sign, it seems I have finally
found my rightful place in the cosmos, and we birds of a feather will
squawk together.

Sincerely,
Steve