293: Machine-gun Magpies

Blogger’s maintenance issues and read-only mode status mean that I am now blogging into a vacuum; hollering into a hollow.  It’s a return to the days of writing out my tedious thoughts and keeping them private.  With any luck all will work out fine and I’ll be able to continue spewing meaningless content into an unseen corner of an uncaring world.  With links.  And pictures.  And YouTube videos.

 Walking down the road, hurrying faster than my little feet could take me, heading bus-ward, the background chatter of the happy little tweety-birds suddenly leaped to the fore.  A desperate panicked tweet of a bird in danger captured my attention and I scanned the area for the poor soul in need of my help.  A little thrush songbird struggled on its back, using its legs to fight off the vicious onslaught of a territorial magpie.  The magpie pecked, nipped and put the boot in.  A second thrush danced around helplessly trying to fend off the magpie; to protect its friend or lover from imminent death.

As I walked passed my footfall sent the magpie up into the air in a temporary semi-retreat.  The thrush couldn’t capitalise and continued to panic on its back, and the persistent and brutal magpie came straight back.  The prolonged torture of the helpless little songbird continued.  I put my foot down; the heavy stomping of Doc Martin against paving slab put the magpie up on the roof.  Its machine-gun screech soared above the prettily tragic little warbles of the injured songbird.  A second magpie signalled its annoyance from further down the street.

Desperate flapping, hopping and limping turned the thrush into a dervish ball of feathers frantically fighting against being floored.  Its struggle to stand was as clumsy as my overlong alliteration.  Continuing on to catch my bus, I felt as though I had done my bit, but deeper I conceded the thrush had probably seen its last morning.  My parents always hated magpies in their garden, claiming they killed the pretty songbirds.  This is the first time I ever saw the genocide in action.  I always assumed they ate the little birdies, but I think now it’s just a territorial defence.  But that doesn’t excuse such behaviour.  A message to the magpies: if you kill it, you should eat it.

The noise of a magpie will wake you up; it's scattergun screaming will not be a gentle lull into awakening, but a harsh jilt into an unwanted early start.  The nightmares will go on and on.  And now, alas, I have no news on the life or death status of that plucky little song thrush, but I know you all wish it well.  I wonder if it's still there, and how easy it would be to make a pie out of.