2:23am
Why starlings are so named
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We lived in a lime-green, two-story house on a curve of the Hoquiam River just before it met the Pacific Ocean. At high tide, the chicken yard and my big, hopeless garden were flooded. We had three elderly neighbors and acres and acres of forest all around us. The only light at night came from the moon and stars. So it was surprising one afternoon, when my husband was away and our baby was asleep, to hear a loud banging and commotion upstairs. Our four-year-old and I ran up to see what it was. There, a starling had somehow gotten in -- probably through the chimney -- and was banging against every window, trying to get out. Before I could get a window open, it had crashed especially hard against the opposite window and was lying on the floor. When I picked it up, there were no signs of life, and its neck seemed rather floppy. "It's dead," I told my little boy. "I'm sorry. But we'll take it out and give it a good burial, and say some words to make it feel better about dying." My son stroked the motionless bird's feathers sadly. We went downstairs and outside. In the bright sunlight, the bird's feathers suddenly lit up with hundreds of tiny stars in red, blue and gold, against its shiny black background of feathers. It was stunningly beautiful. I opened my hand fully to get a better look, and whoosh! the bird was off, flying like a bat out of hell. We both laughed with relief; but I have always treasured that one close, glorious view of the celestial night sky on the back of a bird that almost no one loves.
5 months ago