If birds ran the government

Birds are smarter than we think. The other day out walking the dog, my daughter’s boyfriend suggested we cross the street on our return home.

‘To pay our respects to the birds,’ he said. ‘So they put in a good word for us at the parliament of crows.’ 

Crows can recognise human faces, he told me. They retain a memory of the same face for several years, and are particularly wary of menacing humans. 

I prefer the notion of a parliament of crows to our human parliament. In my fantasy, crows are better placed to judge behaviour and to establish fair practices in communal affairs. We humans tend to make a mash of things. 

In my imagination, I can see the flock of senior crows seated in the top most branches of a eucalypt nodding wisely. Their bright eyes aglow with contemplation on how best to proceed in face of the ongoing damage to their space. 

Humans chop down trees. Human make endless noise with their cars and machinery such that the crows’ nests with their delicate eggs tremble even when well placed in the fork of a tree. And the days have grown hotter with each passing year, the storms more frequent and less predictable within the bird calendar of events. 

The parliament of crows is not one to exclude its younger crows, its females and even the crow whose wing was bent in a freak accident when the crow collided with a streaking car that leapt out of nowhere. 

My imaginary crows are into equity but also they discipline their flock in ways we humans can only imagine. They hold no truck with poor behaviour, no skylarking among the young sure of wing birds, the ones who want to interfere with their neighbouring birds’ nests. 

No, the crows are respectful of other birds and their territories while standing up for their own.

Here I speak of our indigenous crows, not the huge thugs whose ancestors arrived here from the UK over a hundred years ago.

The native crows are at one with the land, the crow visitors or at least their offspring are less able to know the limits of their space. They over step the mark. Grow fat on human rubbish and mess up the landscape for everyone.

I never was one to plunge myself in my imagination into the mind of an animal or bird and my imaginings here can only take me so far before a certain itchiness attacks me. 

An irritability in my ears and mine’s eye. I want to connect to what I write. I need it to mean something to me beyond my imaginings and for this I need my memory of events. I need to add the human element. Perhaps because I am not a bird, not a crow but a human person who finds the vagaries of human kind the most amazing and puzzling of all my observations, even as I recognise the limitations of this.

When I first read about a second woman who died alongside her three children and the police urged caution in concluding this was yet another example of family violence, a man taking away the lives of his wife and children, I did not desist in my immediate speculation, it was the father. It happens so often these days.

When we later discovered it was the mother who killed herself after killing her three children the world flipped a little to the side. 

Some mothers kill their children. And we do not yet know what was happening in the mind of this mother that she should destroy the lives of her three small children but I suspect some madness in her mind that told her it was a kind thing to do, or too dangerous for them all to live.

The family violence we read about more often when men kill their partners and/or children is more often motivated by rage and revenge. Though then we have the story of Medea. Yet Medea is a story written by a man. Had Medea been written by a woman I wonder what trajectory this story might take.

Sometimes mothers are cruel to their children. Some mothers murder their children. All mothers are from time to time ambivalent about their children and most of us mothers struggle with the needs of our children weighed up against our own, especially when the grand narrative of our lives is one of laying our lives down for our children. 

A call to selflessness and nurturance that in many ways has been fuelled by the patriarchal narrative, one that says the men might be selfish because they need to go out into the world and fight for their wives and children. 

Whereas the women at home in the care of small children must put their needs aside for the good of the family. There is no room for a woman’s ambition or desire for self in the patriarchal narrative. It requires a genuine self-disregard on the part of women to blossom. And this gets passed down the generations. 

So when we hear about a woman who has killed her children we are thrown off balance even more off balance than when we hear about a father who has taken the lives of his children.  

And the parliament of crows sits on high in the trees and looks down on our failure as a species to care for the next generation in caring for ourselves and the other creatures around us, including the plant life and all aspects of our landscape, the water and sky, the sun and moon.

Because we are a flawed species and have not yet learned to live in a balanced way. Have not yet learned to find a comfortable reckoning between our individual needs for recognition and the needs of all as a group which requires a certain loss of individuality to thrive. When the group is first and foremost the entity for which we care and our own individuality is nurtured within such a powerful occurrence as a parliament of crows. 

4 thoughts on “If birds ran the government”

  1. I loved reading this after all the narratives I’ve scoured over trying to understand my country’s recent events and what I should make of it all. I too prefer the sensibility of birds to that of humans right now. The last paragraph is perfect!

  2. My wife is the birder of the family. She feeds them every morning and takes photos and videos. In the old flat she had what she called her “breakfast club” which was quite the army of birds and squirrels by the time we left. Now we have our own garden, teeny though it may be, and the feeders are out but even the brightest take a while to cotton on to changes in the neighbourhood. We have a robin who’s a regular–they’re very territorial so we’re pretty sure it’s the same one–and I’ve seen a dunnock and a blackbird and either a blue or a coal tit but only one corvid, a magpie. There’re gulls around too but we don’t want to encourage them. As for how bright birds are I do wonder. Why, for example, when it’s as cold as it’s been of late does a bird when he discovers my wife’s feast take a single seed, fly away and not return again and again? Makes no sense to me. Not bright. And as far as our cockateil goes I go and talk to him and he rushes over to one of his mirrors thinking it’s that that’s doing the talking. He’s also wary of new things and a new food source can sit around for days before he’ll approach it. Never really got that since he’s nomadic by nature and it would be natural for him to face a new vista every day.

    As far as mothers not behaving in a motherly fashion I’ve had very little experience. My mother could mother for her country. She had a robin too that came to the backdoor to get fed. Animals–and not just the clever ones–know. The only woman I knew who struggled with her role actually emigrated to Australia. She had a son she cared for and a daughter she couldn’t see far enough away. She put it down to a difficult birth but a lot of women have those and still immediately dote on their offspring. I felt for the little girl because she was sweet and eminently loveable and, to be honest, I felt for the mother too becuase she wasn’t a bad woman or even a bad mother. She knew herself something was missing but had no idea how to fix it. That was nearly thirty years ago so she’s probably a grandmother now. I wonder how that’s working out

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