Savage Mountain Bluebird

I witnessed something earlier this summer that I don’t know how to categorize. My writing desk sits under a window that looks out on a black Walnut tree with a backdrop of fields. It’s a great view that is beautiful enough to be satisfying but generic enough to not distract me. At least most of the time. Occasionally a bird or squirrel will take up space on the tree and grab my attention. It’s a welcome distraction most of the time. This time is no exception.

As I sat writing and thinking, an Eastern bluebird landed on the branch. These birds are absolutely beautiful. With blue backs that fade into brown and white bellies, they are one of my favorite spring and summer birds. Their arrival is a reminder that winter has gone.

I watched with some fascination the Eastern bluebird land on the branch with something in its mouth. It flitted and skipped around as birds are prone to do until I finally got a good view of some kind of large grub/larvae thing in its beak. Even from a distance, it looked gross and nearly as long as the bird was tall. I kind of felt bad for the bird, considering its diet.

Then came the carnage.

With all the vigor of Hulk smashing Loki into the floor, the bird slapped the grub against the branch repeatedly and mercilessly. It was shockingly graphic to the point that I remember it weeks later. Such a beautiful creature. So much violence.

Next thing I knew, the bird threw its head back and the grub disappeared in two swallows. Then it just stood there, looking around like nothing had happened. My first instinct was to bemoan a cold, hard world. I no longer felt pity for the bird. Act like that, you deserve to eat worms. Then my pity shifted to the grub. It was probably just laying there trying to find some food or shade when it was snatched away by a winged terror. It seemed incapable of doing anything to deserve the treatment it got.

Each individual part of this tableau bothered me, but as I reflected on it, I realized that (despite the off-putting violence) I had to consider the whole event. This was a point of sacred egress where things were happening in their proper order. This wasn’t a strange event just because it was one I didn’t normally witness.

On a surface, the food chain was still connected, each link still playing its part. Things were working correctly. But on another level that affected me much more directly, there was something else happening. A world like this is a gift, because I can’t control it. I can observe it and experience it, but I can’t make the bird, the slug, the tree, or anything else do exactly what I want them to do. All I can do is be grateful for the parts that I get to see, the moments where a bird and a grub and a tree all fulfill some part of their role.

Also, I can thank God that I wasn’t born a slug at the mercy of some beautiful, winged creature.