Birds to me are a mystery. Or maybe better said, their command of the air is like a dandelion’s fluff or cotton, a miracle soon forgotten. So much around us is miraculous, yet busy with our days, miracles become a blur, another curling wave, little more than morning haze.
But think about birds again, just one or two in motion. Somehow, they navigate at crazy speeds, make a dozen turns, avoid a dozen trees, to find a feeder filled with seeds. They do not hit the rocks or walls or trunks or rails; they do not pause to ease the sheets or trim their sails.
They dash and dart, somehow shapes and shadows see, masters of geometry. They do not linger, alert to squirrels, the cardinal, kestrel, chickadee, and every nuthatch nimbler than the bumblebee.
Yet sure in our step, here we sit, unable to fly or jump as high as a common horse, bound to the ground by gravity’s force. Think about the miracle of birds in flight, a thousand angles navigated every day, no compass, no prayers to saints, and – but for jays and crows – few complaints.
Sometimes we pause to watch a dawn, marvel as day breaks, coffee soothing common aches, pat our favorite pet, get the bills paid, then catch a splash of color, as sunset fades.
Think again about those birds, no computer programs, algorithms, or artificial intelligence. No Google Maps or GPS, no engineering or flight classes, and not one of them wearing glasses. They leap into the air, happy for wings, somehow cheerful. Half that daybreak crowd even sings!
So just a note to those among us who think we are forgotten, or that God is busy with other business, that the world is dreary, hopeless, miracles not worth our focus. The world is often broken, beleaguered, and absurd, but miracles are everywhere, including just a bird.
Funny thing is, poets from the past saw in birds what we can see, and turned what they saw into poetry. Emily Dickinson and John Keats saw in them hope enough to fill a book. We can too if we only look.
Robert Penn Warren adored the hawk, Poe the lonely raven, and other birds of Maine, like David Baker, born in Bangor, who loved the common crane. Baker wrote “The Blue,” which goes like this:
“Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time. And sets it down just beyond the other, no splash, breath of a ripple, goes slowly across the silt, mud, and algae-throttled surface, through sedge grass, to stand to its knees in water turning grayer now that afternoon is evening. Now that afternoon is evening, the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky, bluer than the blue-black still pond.”
Simple, quiet, true words he wrote for you and me. There are so many miracles, unfolding over time, like words on birds in flight, some slow, others quick to rhyme. Maybe what we ought to do is focus on those little things, forget the world’s absurdity. Start at the feeder, the miracle of a bird.
Robert Charles is a former Assistant Secretary of State under Colin Powell, former Reagan and Bush 41 White House staffer, Maine attorney, ten-year naval intelligence officer (USNR), and 25-year businessman. He wrote “Narcotics and Terrorism” (2003), “Eagles and Evergreens” (North Country Press, 2018), and “Cherish America: Stories of Courage, Character, and Kindness” (Tower Publishing, 2024). He is the National Spokesman for AMAC. Today, he is running to be Maine’s next Governor (please visit BobbyforMaine.com to learn more)!
