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Articles Denis Hamill: This storm was for the birds NY DAILY NEWS, 2/14/06
WWW.NYDAILYNEWS.COM NY DAILY NEWS, February 14, 2006 The starling appeared out of the storm, a black pilgrim on my
blinding-white deck. This was late Sunday morning, the day of the Snowstorm of '06, and the
starling nose-landed on the far railing facing my back doors, wings ruffling
4 inches of snow aside until he'd laid claim to his perch. I half-expected
him to plant a flag. He was the only living thing I could see out there in
the bleached February storm. I liked him right away. He had a quality that was in short supply on the
morning Washington gasbag shows - guts. If he were a kid instead of a bird
he'd be the one climbing the long flight of stairs to a boxing gym, alone,
to tell some grizzled trainer that he wanted to be the next champeen of the
world. But he was a hungry starling in the big city, and so he flew alone in the
biggest snowstorm in New York City history from the big tree in my
neighbor's yard to my back porch and looked me dead in the eye and
challenged my humanity. My two cats sprawled on the pantry table, bellies as full as the
recipients of President Bush's next tax cut, radiator hissing under them.
They gazed out at the starling through the frosted thermal glass of the
backyard doors. The champagne-colored female named Zsa Zsa yawned. Baby, the black one,
flapped his tail. The starling held my stare, his black eye wet and smart and confident. He
cocked his head in such a way that made me feel guilty about the scrambled
egg sandwich I was eating. If I were vice president I would have shot at
him. And hit my neighbor. And been named the NRA's man of the year. I opened the back door. Snow climbed 3 feet up the panes. I ripped off a
corner of my sandwich as snow blew into the kitchen, wet and stinging, the
wind cackling. The bird clocked me, holding the stare, holding his perch. I
cleared a patch of the railing closest to the back door. The starling
watched from the far side of the deck. Inside, the cats shivered as the wind
invaded their cozy kitchen. I broke the piece of sandwich into three small hunks and dotted the
railing. The bird watched, head cocking this way and that, as if picking up
unwarranted satellite intercepts for the NSA. I shut the door against the
wind. The starling speared across the deck. He devoured two bites. Then he
cinched a third hunk in his needle-nose beak and rocketed through the storm
to the high skeletal branches. I grabbed a half-eaten loaf of whole wheat bread from the top of the
fridge and crumbled the slices. I filled an aluminum tray, shredding old
uneaten bagels, a bunch of wrinkled grapes, some leftover chicken and cold
string beans. I plopped the tray onto an old wicker chair on the deck. I closed the door. And here came the starling, a black feathery bullet
fired from the cold sky. He landed on the wicker chair, strong little talons
gripping the arm, looked me in the eyes, and I swear the tough little SOB
winked at me. And then came the rest. Three at first. Then a half-dozen.
Bigger and smaller, younger and older, male and female. Then 10 and 20 and
then more than 50 starlings descending from the barren winter trees,
pecking, jumping, flapping, a leaping and fluttering ballet, a crazy black
dance of spring against the stark winter white, filled with chirping and
song and bickering and smooching. Outside my back door, life triumphed on a
day colder than death. They ate everything on the tray. And then the first starling, fat with food, returned to his original
perch on the snowy railing. And kept looking at me. Then one after another
the others lined up along my back deck railing like rummies waiting for a
saloon to open at noon on a Sunday. They perched there, retreating into
their dense feathers, bellies full as the snowstorm continued to blow. A few hours later I popped some corn in olive oil. The starlings were
still on my railing. They ate enough popcorn for a double feature in less
time than it takes for coming attractions. And then, just for the hell of
it, I fed them a half-box of Meow Mix, which they devoured with special
ironic relish as the annoyed cats looked on. In the afternoon, by chance, I found myself lost in "To Kill a
Mockingbird" on TCM, still one of the great American movies. When the snow finally stopped, I went to check on the starlings. They
were gone with the Snowstorm of 2006. Originally published on February 14, 2006 Fair Use Notice: This document may contain
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