What compels a herd of a gazillion black birds with irridescent green necks — and one sparrow — to suddenly land in my yard?
I know you think the collective noun for birds is “flock” but the operative word in that sentence was “gazillion.” A gazillion of anything is a herd, regardless of genus or species.
But back to my question. Why? Why now? Why my yard? Why so many? Why only one sparrow?
On nature shows I’ve seen cooperative fishing expeditions by certain types of fish. (I can’t tell you what kind of fish, however, because I’m 50 and I refuse to remember any more facts. There was a time when I tried to remember facts, naively certain such a skill would come in handy at parties. It never did, so my new conversational skill is “making things up.”)
I’ve also seen how a pride of lions can work together chasing down one gazelle at the food court whom they then tease mercilessly about her skinny legs and unibrow until she hollers “Uncle!” (I think that’s how it happened. See note about fact refusal above.)
But these birds are selfish. They don’t share their worm bounty with their winged brethren. So I’m wondering about their great numbers and motivation.
Bird One: Hey Louie … you gonna add that worm to our stew?
Bird One: Why not? You making a potion to kill all the cats around here?
Bird One: Then what are you doing with your worms?
Louie: Just messin’ with that buttinski lady drinking margaritas on her deck.
Of course, the most Hitchcockian thing about it is when, for no discernible reason, they all fly away at once sounding like a rest stop hand dryer with loose bolts.
Oh, I know. Bird flash mob. And me without my videocamera.
What are the other possibilities?
UPDATE: They’re actually Grackles. They’re quite shimmery and lovely but they make an annoying noise … much like their name.