the blueshift journal

Behind Closed Beaks

Ania Payne

The state bird of Arizona, the cactus wren, is an eight-inch, tobacco spitting, whiskey-drinking, foot-tapping con artist. He builds a slew of decoy nests between the prickly thorns of many desert cacti. He is the largest North American wren, and he knows this. Each morning, he flips over dried leaves with his beak, searching for braised pork loin with a balsamic reduction and roasted duck with raspberry glaze and chateaubriand, but finds only ants, beetles, grasshoppers, and wasps, whose wispy bodies he consumes in one swallow. He’s learned that he can only rely on nature for practical things like insects and twigs, so he perches outside of Carrabba’s Italian Grill, where the Sous-chef feeds him bites of leftover lasagna and spaghetti braised beef and sips of wine from a mason jar lid. When he’s in a good mood, he’ll perch on the chef’s arm, tolerating a series of bright flashes, “Say Cheese!” and screens pushed in his face. His patience and posture is rewarded with noodles drenched in alfredo and marinara sauces, but when he flies back to the nest, he has nothing to share with his mate and hatchlings, who wait with open mouths, mouths that only ever receive dry grasshoppers and beetles that get stuck in throats that crackle with dryness when the desert wind blows.

                                                           

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Arkansas’ mockingbird was named by the early Quapaw, who called her Cencontlatolly, a word meaning four hundred tongues. Men are excited by this name, so she keeps her beak closed when they are near. As she flies, businessmen, garbage men, and fireman walk on the street below her, following her shadow as if attached by a string. Male birds stalk her at night, following her from rooftop to tree to pole. They primp and preen when she is around. Some bring her twigs and worms, hoping to swoon her; others try to force themselves on her delicate body. Once a month she feels lustful and chooses only the most well endowed male to accompany her in the nest. Afterwards, cencontlatolly warbles loudly, impersonating the croaking frog below, or the neighbor’s dog who cries during birth, or the squeaks of bedsprings that leak out of open windows late into the night. Her trills say: I am not a plagiarist, but a thirsty diva—will someone please refill my glass of chardonnay?

 

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Michigan’s American robin demands a more unique name for herself. She is patriotic with her red breast, but is vocal about her support for Spain’s football team. The robin is the first to sing at dawn, but she sings blindly, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She is known to fly into fingerprint-stained dining room windows while groggy-eyed families are still bent over their bowls of oatmeal. When her neck cracks on impact, the inhabitants of the home gather her frail body and feed her a sugar water mixture with a medicine spoon. They say to each other, “We can fix this bird,” but with 2ml, 6ml, 9ml of sugar water lodged in her throat, she chokes and suffocates, so they toss her limp body out with the rotting bananas.