King.

There’s a great open prairie near here. It’s yellow and wild. Wade through it and you could be somewhere in the American Midwest five hundred years ago. Forget the freakin’ jet contrail in the sky. It’s five hundred years ago.

The sun is strong. The wind is dry and hot. The grass moves. And there are Kingbirds here. They own the place.

These are Eastern Kingbirds. Don’t get too excited. They’re not rare, they’re not life-list material, they’re not particularly good looking.

All that aside, my neighbor wouldn’t know a Kingbird if it bit him on the butt. Neither would the guys I have beers with. But that’s okay. I have this particular interest in such things.

I watch the Kingbird and realize my original impression of drabness is wrong. It’s brightly white in front, got a strong black crest and dark back. With white tips on its tail, like the tips of eagle feathers.

(A miniature Mohawk chief could have worn a miniature headdress of Kingbird feathers and it would have had those white tips, like any decent headdress.)

Okay, I look to see what else there is in the prairie. And over there, I see another Kingbird. Then another. By the time I cross the prairie I’ve seen more than ten.

Kingbird prairie, I call the place. And I notice that all these birds behave like kings. They’re haughty. They stand their ground. They don’t take any crap.

When I was in high school the toughest kid in our tough neighborhood had the nickname “king.” He had scars on his eyebrows and growled. Everyone crossed the street when they saw him coming.

Back then, I wondered if he acted tough because his name was “king,” or if he was given the name because of his behavior. This old question hit again in the prairie.

Do these haughty black and white birds with great posture act sure of themselves because they’re “king” birds, or did some ancient ornithologist give them this name because of the way they looked?

Dumb question. They don’t know what we call them, and wouldn’t care.

But then I saw a Yellow-breasted Chat, a bird with such a stupid name I wouldn’t tell anyone I saw it. And that bird looked sheepish.

In the same prairie I’ve seen Dickcissels. I have no idea what they thought of themselves, but I didn’t have a lot of respect for them. Could it be the odd name?

I like names like “bluebird” because the bird’s blue. “Indigo Bunting” is a pretentious name. If you come home and tell your wife you saw an Indigo Bunting you feel a little fussy.

But I don’t have to tell you about bird names. If you’re true to yourself you probably have to admit some are pretty silly. Dickcissel. C’mon.

But Kingbird, now that’s a name to take seriously. That’s a bird to take seriously. Just ask one.

2 Responses to “King.”

  1. Tim Pinkston says:

    A studly fellow, weightlifter and outdoorsman, I am more concerned about preserving my own dignity when I report my birdwatching exploits to my skeptical family and friends than I am about what the birds themselves think. The yellow-bellied sapsucker and tufted titmouse bring chuckles and odd looks … at least in England a twitcher can, as I read in a recent book, return from an outing and report seeing a couple of great tits!

  2. And then there was that long ago day outside Grand Forks ND when I saw an eastern kingbird and a western kingbird sitting next to one another on a wire, with the eastern to the east and the western to the west. How could they not know?