Column: A fine and noble bird? Not in my neighbourhood!

By Thomas Winterhoff
First published on July 23, 2003
Copyright © Thomas Winterhoff

Every neighbourhood has its own "signature" attributes – elements that make it stand out from other areas of the teeming metropolis and provide it with distinguishing charm and an individual flair.

For a community like Surrey on the Lower Mainland, it's the attractive arrangements of rusting car carcasses and broken beer bottles strewn with loving care across the front lawn. In Port Moody (where I spent much of my misspent youth), it was the distinctively jarring, yellow backdrop of piles of sulphur awaiting shipment overseas and the delicately pungent aromas of the mud flats of Burrard Inlet.

The neighbourhood where my wife and I now live, however, has none of that raw, industrial appeal that offers enchanting sensory stimulation to residents of those communities. In fact, the street where we reside is positively pastoral – some might say mundane – by comparison.

Instead of being dragged abruptly into the conscious realm by the dulcet tones of motorcyclists roaring up our street at the crack of dawn (as was often the case when we lived in East Vancouver), we now usually awaken to the gently melodic sounds of small songbirds who’ve made a home in the many flowering shrubs and trees that dot the neighbourhood.

When we first moved into our street some six years ago, the change of scenery and auditory atmosphere took quite a bit of time to get used to - say about 3.4 seconds. Nowadays, we can barely remember when whooping car alarms served as our morning wake-up call.

Lately, however, the memories of tough neighbourhoods gone by have come flooding back with a vengeance.

Our neighbour (who in all other respects is a fine, upstanding human being) maintains a very large and magnificent cherry tree on his property whose branches stretch amiably over the fence and into our yard. For most of the year, the tree is very pleasant to look at and provides welcome shade from the sun in the warmer months.

But at about this time every summer, it also attracts a seemingly endless parade of "undesirables" to the neighbourhood.

Like the avian version of Marlon Brando and his unkempt cohorts in the The Wild One, flocks of menacing-looking crows take up temporary residence in our block to feast on the luscious, bright red fruit as it ripens. Their threatening, gang-like presence dominates the street.

Our tiny songbird companions are left to cower nervously in the shadows and hope that the bullies will soon tire of their sport and move on (much like the residents of the towns that Brando and his ilk terrorized in that 1953 motorcycle movie classic).

But for weeks on end, their raucous cawing and unruly behaviour are the scourge of the neighbourhood. Knowing that no other species of bird will trifle with them (apart from the occasional eagle or ill-advised seagull), they spend their days lounging around and generally making a mess of the place. If the bird world had an equivalent of the beer-swilling, pot-bellied loser who steadfastly remains parked on the couch in his underwear, the crow in yonder cherry tree would be it.

Don’t get me wrong. Ravens and crows have a cherished place in West Coast native mythology and Western literature (to wit, Edgar Allan Poe). I suppose that the species also forms an ecologically important component of the local bird population.

But for the love of Pete, they can also be insufferable, annoying boors when they want to be.

At no time is this unsavoury side of their nature most evident than mid-July, when the juicy, vibrantly coloured cherries are just past their peak. I suspect that the summer sun begins to ferment the juice in the latter days of the season and turn it into a mildly intoxicating brew, because the crows begin to get even more surly than usual – even amongst themselves.

Remember that guy in the beer parlour who would toss back way too many glasses of cheap draft beer in the rush to get drunk before closing time? (Again, remnants of my misspent youth). He'd then greet every figure that would come within blurry eyeshot with a gruffly mumbled, "Wadya lookin' at, punk?"

You get the picture. It's no wonder the robins and sparrows have been lying low these days.

But this morning, for the first time in what seems like an eternity, there was an eerie silence outside our window when we woke up. Then, almost imperceptibly, the tentative calls of one small bird broke the silence. A minute later, he was joined by another – and then another.

Soon the air was filled with the sound of birdsong, with nary a caw to be heard. Brando and his band of thugs had apparently moved on – and none too soon. I was beginning to long for the sound of whooping car alarms just to drown out their incessant cries.

Oh, well. There’s always next year.