Two Blackbirds…

Two Blackbirds on the Same Branch

By Maude Plourde

Living amongst these crowded branches was the greatest challenge of the year. In November, trees filled themselves. Every inch was covered with living wings, creating a black, leafless tree. We had lived on this land through the breeding season, but as winter approached, we moved south for better conditions. We flew south as individuals, and our survival depended on each other, each of us pulling the weight of the other in a restless swarm of survival. In every V-shaped formation, there was a pacesetter at the front; I had held that position for some years now. 

I was Robin. My slim body was covered with glossy rusty-black plumage, and I had a rare, slightly yellow, curved bill. I had all the qualities of a true survivor; I was quite smaller than my flock, which meant that I could fit in the shallow crevices of rocks where crustacea hide. My pointed wings made my flight faster than others, and my ruby-red eyes could perceive any predator at a distance. 

Our challenge wasn’t the flight to the south; it was all the stops we made along the way that created in us fearful creatures. We called this period the Sojourn. Every night, a different wetland, and every night, we had to find unoccupied spaces to rest. Some days, we stopped by beaver-less rivers, on the edges of abandoned lakes, or even in flooded forests. Last night, we stopped by a slow-moving stream where ducks took up most of the water. 

Tonight was the last night of our Sojourn, and just as I soared through the cold sky alone, I felt something strange. While the night grew colder and darker, I longed for a warmth that wasn’t just from the sun. Surviving last winter had made me realize the importance of relationships and camaraderie. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was strength in connections. As I scanned the crowded branches, my eyes landed on one in particular. A branch at the very edge of the tree, where a lone figure perched. Something about it felt familiar. Not in a way I could explain, but in a way that pulled me, as if some forgotten part of me knew exactly where to land. 

“Hey, can I scooch here?” I cawed.

“Way to scare me like that,” answered the other.

“Sorry, but this is the only place left,” I said with exhaustion. 

“I’m at the end of my branch. Mind you, there’s nothing beyond me!”

 “I’m sure I can fit on your left. Scoot!” 

“Okay, okay,” said the other, shifting slightly to the right.

Arriving on a branch felt like squeezing into a nest that was already full – cramped and unwanted. Most of us had to arrive as early as sundown to catch an inch of peace for the night. Others were in fight or flight as they had to find another tree or brawling another to steal their inch. Watching the others struggle for a place to rest was nothing compared to the battle we had faced last year.

Last year’s Sojourn had been the worst of all. The harsh conditions had forced us to stay in breeding lands for the winter. Worst of all was the cold. It had never been this cold. The habitats where we would have usually Sojourned had been affected by the flooding of vast lands, the freezing of basically every water pond, river, or stream. Every tree branch was covered with thick and heavy ice, making the trees dangerously frail. The winds that had once guided us south ripped through our wings, and I had felt as though nature itself had forgotten us. Trees stood like silent judges, indifferent to our hunger, as the ground beneath us turned to ice, trapping our claws in frozen soil. The berries had long gone; even the insects had died from the cold. The land that had once fed us turned into a frozen death trap. Nature offered no kindness.

After fighting harsh weather for a few weeks, my flock and I were hungry for anything that we could find. We had been living on the side of this stream for months now as it offered a small opening of water beneath the thick ice. All around us were bare raspberry bushes, tall ice-covered trees, and empty carcasses of other birds. We were living in a state of survival when a flock of others arrived. They, too, had been on the hunt for food. We got acquainted, but the small talk quickly turned into territorial screams. One of the others managed to strike me with his wing, making me stumble off my branch. My first thought was to swing back as I fell to the ground. I suddenly felt a brisk gust of wind rip through my delicate body. The other had already feasted his way through my leg. In a fast movement, I pecked one of his eyes out and flew away in a cry. 

Last year’s winter has made me who I am today. However, nothing had prepared me for the last night of our Sojourn. 

“I’m Robin, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Robin. I’m Jay,” he replied. “Looks like we’re going to spend the night beside each other.”

“I guess. Thanks again for letting me rest next to you.” 

“You’re welcome!” Answered the one-eyed bird. 

***

As improbable as it was, they had already met. What neither of them knew was that the blackbird on the left had lost his left leg, while the one on the right was missing his right eye.