Birdie!

Mark your calendars:  Today, February 10, is the first day of spring in Paris.  Forget that gray sky and the cold rain shower that took you by surprise five minutes after you ventured out into a 'sunny' day without an umbrella.  Never mind that all those Parisians remain imperviously bundled up in their wool coats and scarves.  They have a rule against shedding those until May (Moi d'avril; ne décourvrez pas un fil; moi de mai, faites ce que vous voulez).  Those are words of caution for April.  We're more than a month away from rounding the Ides of March, and those frileux French won't be moulting their winter coats before almost three months from now.

Still, I'm sure.  Today is the first day of spring.  What on earth was there that was spring-like about this utterly ordinarily gray February day?  Well, Birdie sang.  And when he sings, you can be sure spring's arrived.

"Birdie?"  I can just hear the scorn dripping from your voice at this ridiculous name.  And you're right, it is ridiculous.  I'm not at all sure what made me answer his harbinger-of-spring warble with my own slightly delirious  cry of "Birdie!" called out loudly from my open bedroom window.  It was one of those things that spring spontaneously from the gut, when you think no one is looking...or listening.  And "Birdie" it's remained ever since.

I have never seen Birdie up close.  He rules  the upper altitudes of an area of conjoined courtyards behind our Haussmannian building and those on the street angling behind us.  This space is populated by a rather large horse chestnut which is, alas, barbarously topped every couple of years, and an absolutely grandiose linden tree.  This royal monarch of the neighborhood is taller than the 6-story buildings hemming him in and must easily be more than a hundred years old.  In late June, this linden perfumes the entire neighborhood with its--I don't know, tens of thousands, millions?--of tiny flowers, every last one of which seems to spurt out fragrance as powerful as the perfume counter at Printemps.  But no, I do the pure and ethereal fragrance of the linden a terrible injustice by comparing it to the vulgarity of commercial perfumes. 

But back to Birdie.  Birdie, as I said, occupies the upper reaches of this neighborhood, and, in addition in to the trees, he likes to perch on the chimney pots of the surrounding rooflines.  These he treats as royal pergolas from which to broadcast his unvarying, liquid, and very loud warble.  I'm sure Birdie is a male, and that when he starts singing, he's decided it's time to search out this year's Mrs. Birdie.  You see, I'm not sure Birdie ever leaves his neighborhood of the conjoined courtyards to wing over to, say, nearby Parc Monceau, where he could check out the chicks as do so many young Frenchmen once the days start to lengthen.  I figure this is why he gets such an early start on spring.  I mean, how many potential Mrs. Birdies can there be within hearing range of his courtyard?

I've only seen Birdie from afar, silhouetted against one of his chimney pots, singing robustly.  I can only say he's a rather large bird, and seems to be of a drab, dark color, like black or brown.  But just close your eyes and listen; there's nothing drab about that bird's song.  It's a beautiful series of descending notes and, well, it's very loud.  And the more true spring approaches, the earlier Birdy begins his serenade.  This is excellent for my work habits as there is no hope of remaining asleep once Birdie has decided the day has begun.  So, once Birdie says spring has sprung, I have to shed my slothful hivernal habits and get up even though it's not even light out yet.

In order to get their opinion as to what sort of bird he is, I've described Birdie to several French friends.  Of course, I kept that disgusting Birdy word to myself and spoke of him simply and soberly as l'oiseau.  The bird.  I was disappointed to learn that Birdie is probably a common merle, a sort of grackle-ish bird apparently not esteemed by the French.  In fact, the marauding merles are why I had to put netting over all my berries in Normandie.  Yet, I never hear a Birdy-like song among the thousands of spring warblings striking up at dawn at the Normandie house.

Birdy and I have had this thing going on for years.  His warble has become for me an intrinsic part of les beaux jours, that inimitable and nostalgic sense of the achingly long days to come, of leaving the windows open to the wafting linden perfume, and to the piercing, insistent, invariable song of l'oiseau.  He must have woken up late on this, the first day of his personal Spring, because he uttered his first notes around 2 in the afternoon.  I guess he's not quite in the swing of spring yet.  But that didn't prevent me from throwing the windows wide and answering with all the enthusiasm I could muster. "Birdie!"

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