The Holy Grail Press
Proudly Made On Earth By Earthlings
Birdseed & Sex
An Eclectic Collection
by Michael Soetaert
Bawk-Akkkk!
© Copyright 2026
Holy Grail Press, Portland, OR
for Rachel,
my favourite birder
Becoming a Birder
It all started with dippers. The first time I ever went birdwatching – proper birdwatching, where you go out with the sole purpose of seeing birds, and not just birds in general, but specific birds, birds with more than one name – I was in Colorado. Estes Park, to be exact. I was 16.
I was there with Explorer Post 943 from the Kansas City Zoo. Our sponsor was an older guy (like in his mid-30s) named Harry who worked at the zoo. Harry was a bonafide birder. He took birdwatching seriously. He had more than one field guide that he actually used. He wore his binoculars all the time... even while driving. He had a really nice camera with this really long lens that was all mounted on an old rifle stock so he could hold it still while taking pictures of birds. The shutter button was the “trigger” of the “rifle.” And he could tell one bird from another with just a glance, if that. The guy was good. Harry had even gone to Africa just to see birds. That’s how serious he was. But he’d never seen a dipper. An American Dipper. Cinclus mexicanus.
Dippers, or water ouzels for you old timers, are technically songbirds, and they do sing, but it’s not a catchy tune. They are not overly attractive birds. They’re a uniform dark gray, maybe a bit smaller than a robin with short, stubby tails. If they were sitting on a branch up in a tree, they’d be really easy to overlook.
But sitting in trees is not what they do. What they do is walk underwater in swiftly moving mountain streams, using that stubby tail as a brace. There they eat all the stuff that they can find. Usually little stuff – little bugs, little fish, little crustaceans. Underneath that swiftly moving, very cold water. No other bird on the entire planet does that.
If you want to see a dipper, you need a mountain stream. A serious mountain. Sure, they may call overly large hills mountains in places like Missouri, but the dippers know they’re not. The Rocky Mountains, now those are serious. You find a stream there, and there’s a very good chance you might just see a dipper. After all, they’re really not that rare, or secretive.
So very early in the morning, like 5 a.m. early, Harry and I went out in search of dippers, because, apparently, that’s the best time to see birds – ridiculously early in the morning. It was me, the guy who had never birded, and Harry, a full-fledged birder. I mean, seriously, the guy looked for birds with binoculars while he was driving. And he found them.
So there we were, walking along a mountain stream while the sun still wasn’t certain it really wanted to rise. And I thought the other side of the stream might be a better place to find this elusive bird, to actually see a dipper, only because we had yet to see any on this side of the stream. Harry had his doubts, but I jumped over just the same. Problem was, even though it was easy to jump over, I couldn’t jump back. The bank I had jumped to was considerably lower than the one I jumped from. Gravity works that way. And Harry didn’t want to jump at all. It’s that whole gravity thing. So we were stuck walking on different sides of the stream. And then the stream got wider and there were trees and such and we got separated, which was really no big deal, because eventually we’d come back to the road where we started, and there was a bridge.
There, walking by myself, that’s when I saw a dipper. And, really, there’s no mistaking a dipper. It popped out of the stream, caught its breath, or whatever it is that dippers do when they’re not underwater. And then it jumped back in, walked around underwater for a bit, then it came back out and flew away. Just like that. I had seen a dipper.
When I got to the road I caught back up with Harry, and of course I told him about the dipper.
“Are you sure?” he asked. And, of course, I was. “Let’s go!” he said, taking off before I even had a chance to point in the general direction, quicker than I’d ever seen him move.
So we trekked back to where I had seen it, both of us on the same side this time, but no matter how quiet we were or how long we waited, there was no dipper to be seen. Harry tried to act like it was no big deal. Like it was just a part of birding. After all, you’re never going to see them all. But he wasn’t fooling anybody. It was there, and he had missed it.
It was the next day that Harry heard that dippers had been spotted under a highway bridge. Luckily I already had my shoes on. When we got there, cars were parked all along the highway. The place was flocking with birders, a regular murmuration, all armed with scopes and binoculars and cameras, and all just as impressive as anything Harry had. And sure enough, there were dippers, more than one, flitting in and out of the water underneath that bridge. Not even trying to hide. Not caring who might see them. Posing. So Harry got to see a dipper before we headed back to Missouri.
I don’t know what it was, though. Harry just didn’t seem nearly that excited about finally seeing all those dippers under that bridge as he had been the day before when he hadn’t seen any of them at all.
​
Cinclus Mexicanus
Bird List
Once you know where to look
and when
and you know exactly what you are looking for
there are so many species of birds
that suddenly become obvious
Birds that have been there all along
floating on the brackish waters of some little tarn
perched on a fencepost by the roadside
or singing for all they’re worth
right outside your backdoor
And it’s only then
with their name safely secured to your list
that both you and they
can truly be certain
that they ever existed at all
​
"Remember, when they drop dead
Kevin
Kevin claimed to be a birder
even though he didn’t have a life-list
or a pair of binoculars he carried
everywhere he went
just in case
And though he insisted
in a particularly annoying
non-insisting sort of way
that the duck out on the lake
was a mallard
he was wrong
The narrow white band
around the tip of its bill
clearly identified it
as a Ring-necked Duck
Aythya collaris
And later that afternoon
when I returned to the lake
in the steady rain
he stayed back at the cabin
where it was warm and dry
and never got to see the wrentits
that played hide and seek
all along the trail
that wound around the shore
​
“I don’t know. I mean, after the first few seasons... well... not hooking up. I don’t know. It wasn’t from not trying. You know how it goes. You know, maybe mating’s not for everyone. I mean, I don’t have to mate, do I? Like anybody’s going to care if I don’t... I mean... I don’t know. It’s OK... isn’t it?”
Starlings
Wouldn’t it be great
to murmurate?
Hundreds or thousands or even more,
to move together as one?
Some say it’s a way to survive, or
maybe they do it for fun.
Only a few species of birds murmurate.
Grackles and blackbirds and a sandpiper or two.
But it’s the lowly starling –
Sturnus vulgaris –
that does it so well.
To rise
to fall
to be one
to be all
To fall
to rise
to soar
to glide
to become the wind
If I were to come back as a bird,
if that is to be my fate,
then I’d want to be a starling,
​
so I could murmurate.
murmurate: (verb) the act of murmuring; to participate in a murmuration. It’s that cool thing some birds (especially starlings) do, usually in the evening, when hundreds, if not thousands, of them all fly together in swooping, intricately coordinated patterns supposedly as a way to confuse predators, which they can do quite simply by only paying attention to the seven closest birds around them. The word derives from the soft “murmuring” sound of their feathers as they fly.
“How long do we have to live here before they stop calling us European Starlings?”
Birds
Beastly creatures
Idiots
Returning yearly to the same old grind
Doing the same old thing
Stopping only when they die
​
“Doesn’t Mom make just the very best vomit?”
If I Could Choose
I’d be a bird
a bird that has never existed before
a little bird
a red and yellow bird with black speckles
greenish legs
a softly curving beak
and a crest
definitely a crest
I’d be a bird
that couldn’t be easily overlooked
I would choose a beautiful song
lilting, trilling
that I would sing
from where I was hidden
in the darkness of the summer leaves
Just so you would look
And then I would flit into sight
a bird you’ve never seen before
a bird you’ll never see again
a bird no one will ever believe you’ve seen
A bird you will forever be looking to see
just one more time
​
Playing Hide and Seek with Birds
Hide and Seek is the only game
that birds are willing to play.
Be warned:
They do not play fair.
They hide too well.
And they stay hidden long after it’s obvious
they’re not going to be found.
They don’t even come out for Olly Olly Oxen Free,
or whatever you’re supposed to yell.
Like it matters!
And why do I have to be “It” every time?
That’s not the way to play the game!
Comon!
We’re supposed to take turns!
Don’t they know the whole point of the game
is to be found?
To be found almost immediately
in the same silly place you always hide,
so you can run across the lawn laughing
with absolutely no chance of ever getting back
safely to a base that doesn’t matter?
Two can play at this game!
If they won’t play fair,
then neither will I.
I’m not going to count anymore.
I’m not going to hide my eyes.
And I’m not yelling “Ready or not”
or anything.
Not until the birds take their turns at being “It.”
​
And then they can come find me.
Night Birds
The Barn Owls in Mexico came out every night
from the palm tree where they lived
next to the house where we would take our lawn chairs
up to the patio on the roof and wait
for them to become silhouettes inside the branches
while they built up their determination
before slipping out under the cover of Night
Herons announcing to the world that they weren’t afraid
to share their palm with unrepentant killers
or maybe they knew they had nothing to fear
borne from the comradery of those who know
the day shift is overrated.
​
peep
chirp cheep cluck quack squawk
twitter chitter flitter groak
caw coo hoot honk awk
​
Pigeons
Pigeons can’t fly.
Not really.
They sit on their ledges
nodding buoyant heads
like rear window hula dancers.
While their coils run down,
the coils that sproing them
from their perches
like those silly suction spring toys.
​
They’re sproinged
into the uncertainty of open air,
pretending purpose
with their useless wind wings.
​
Continuing outward until
they reach the end
of the invisible elastic
that binds them to the ledge,
snapping them back
to bounce off the walls or the windows,
finally falling safely to the edge.
​
Where their coils rewind
and their springs reload.
Until the day finally comes
when that invisible elastic
doesn’t snap back,
leaving them spiraling
downward to the street
to be smashed flat
by big bus tires.
​
And there,
their little gears
too crushed to know,
they await the rains
that will wash them
down to the sewer drains,
away from the disgust of the passersby.
​
One Fine Day in the Mid-Nineteenth Century
Deep in the Woods of British Columbia
– a very short play –
Setting: A clearing in the woods.
At curtain the clearing is empty, but filled with the sounds of birds.
Enter Left Sir Richard along with his trusty companion, Peter, pushing their way out of the undergrowth. They cross to Center.
Sir Richard: (excitedly pointing up into a tree) There! There! Mark it down, my good man. A new species of bird! I think I'll call it a Tit.
Peter: And a fine name it is, Sir Richard. But what kind of tit?
Sir Richard: And right you are, Peter. Bloody well done. As you know, there can be lots of different kinds of tits. And it is our duty to see them all!
Peter: Indeed, but what shall we name this one?
Sir Richard: It was in the bush, so I say it's a Bushtit.
Peter: Brilliant!
Sir Richard: Now doesn't that just make you giggle? Like the Dickcissel. Now there's a silly name. After all, it's not a truly good name if it's not just a tad bit silly, too, now, is it? Now let's be off, and if we're really lucky, we'll find a pecker or two before nightfall. And maybe even a cock! And tomorrow... boobies!
Exit Right Sir Richard and Peter into the undergrowth.
Curtain.
​
Tufted Titmice
When I was only eight
I got this really nice book
all about birds,
and I was never allowed to believe
that tufted titmice
were furry little critters
that hid in the brassieres
of large old ladies.
​
A Depraved Indifference of Pigeons
Sparrows
The thing is,
it’s not just a sparrow.
It could be a Savannah Sparrow
or a Grasshopper Sparrow.
A Henslow’s Sparrow
or a Le Conte’s Sparrow
A Vesper Sparrow
or a Lark Sparrow.
The list goes on.
Hell, it might not even be a sparrow.
It could be a wren or a finch
or a junco or a bunting.
With most of them,
there’s really no way of ever being sure,
even if they’re dead,
unless you’re really good.
And then you can’t help but point out
to anyone you happen to be with
that there’s a Bachman’s Sparrow
hiding in the thicket.
​
​
“‘Amazing Navigational Skills’ my ass! Admit it. We’re lost.”
Winter Birds
Winter is full of stupid birds.
Birds that really don’t believe
in the dream of the South.
Birds that really want to believe
that I’ll keep throwing moldy things
out my back door.
Birds that keep banging on my screen
wanting to come inside,
willing to believe in the dream of Central Heat.
I’ve sent my cat
to tell them to go away.
​
The Usual Suspects
Messenger Pigeons
There are three species of birds that can talk.
Not just repeat words,
but actually communicate.
Carry on regular conversations.
The first is the toucan,
but they only speak in Portuguese.
They probably know Spanish, too,
and maybe even some English,
but they only use Portuguese
when talking to people.
The next are vultures,
mind you, not all vultures,
but most.
The kind we got around here –
they do.
But they won’t.
Not a word.
Except maybe to softly whisper,
“Hurry up and die, already,”
which would be a heck of thing to hear
while you’re gasping for your final breath.
And the last are pigeons,
your common walk-in-the-street pigeons.
I know this because a pigeon told me.
Of course, he could’ve been lying,
well, about the toucans and the vultures,
though I don’t really know why
he’d lie about such a thing.
Still, really,
the only bird that I can claim on good authority
that can actually speak
is the pigeon.
And after the introduction he said to me,
“Thank you for not saying,
‘Are you really a talking bird?’
When it’s more than obvious I am.
And because you didn’t bother me with the obvious,
I will take a message for you,
anywhere you want it to go.”
And by anywhere, he meant anywhere:
The present, the future, the past.
One message.
So it better count.
He gave me one day to decide.
This time tomorrow.
And that makes me wonder.
I mean, anywhere in the present would be a bit pointless.
I could just send an email, or a text, or even a real letter.
Heck, I could just call them.
The future seems equally pointless.
What could I tell anyone in the future,
including myself,
that they didn’t already know?
And if not,
it’s not like it’s really going to matter by then.
But the past...
The past intrigues me.
What advise could I give myself
that would be good to know then?
What could I avoid?
What mistakes?
Poor decisions?
Bad bets?
That night after the game?
But then...
What if?
I mean, never mind the whole conundrum
about if I would’ve changed the past
then I already should know it now.
It seems like I would remember that time
the talking bird told me to stay at home
and save my money.
But maybe it doesn’t work that way.
It’s not like you can look it up on the Internet.
But what if?
What if I try to change something bad
and I just make it worse?
Not like the Nazis win the war
or all life as we know it is no more,
though I suppose that’s possible.
But what if it’s just my own life
that I thoroughly screw up
worse than it already is?
I’m suddenly living under a bridge
or on death row
or I really did marry Cynthia Blankenship.
Twice.
So here’s what I’m thinking.
Maybe there is a way
to get a message from the future.
I mean, it’s worth asking about.
And if he can’t do it,
well, OK.
But if he can,
then he can tell me who places
in the third race
this Sunday at Oak Lawn.
Give me a long shot,
and I can clean up.
Then maybe, just maybe,
I can win back all the money I lost
from that really bad advice
that was given to me by the cat.
​
The Shrike
Nobody’s favourite bird is the shrike.
Absolutely nobody.
Nasty birds.
Not much bigger than a robin.
They impale things.
Small mammals, reptiles, other birds.
They don’t care.
They catch them in their little feet
and run them through
on a thorn or barbed wire
or whatever is handy
and then they eat them
at their leisure,
tearing them apart with their daintily hooked bill.
Sure, other birds are just as nasty.
Owls and hawks and eagles and such,
but they’re not kidding anybody.
Only the shrike
has the temerity,
the audacity,
the shear ballsiness,
to hide its blood lust
behind the gentle guise
of a songbird.
​
Wish Come True
Every bird ever
came by where I was waiting,
binoculars in hand,
field guide at the ready.
Each one slowly paraded by
and was plainly labeled,
so I needed neither.
There was no confusing
the wrens and the sparrows and the flycatchers.
There were even those birds
that were long gone:
the Dodo and the Homing Pigeon
and the Dusky Seaside Sparrow.
And at the very end
came the Archaeopteryx,
not looking ferocious at all.
At the end of the day,
I had seen them all.
So I left my field book and binoculars
there in the dirt,
and I walked home
with my eyes to the ground,
no longer needing to look up at all.
​
The Great Egret and the Not-So-Great Egret
So There I Was
sitting out on the Party Porch on a warm afternoon,
smoking a bowl and drinking a beer.
And I see an eagle.
It’s way up there.
I can barely make it out,
but I know right away it’s an eagle
because of the jizz of it all –
Its size,
how flat the wings are,
how it doesn’t rock in the wind,
but slowly arcs across the sky,
seemingly not in a hurry to go anywhere.
And then I catch a flash of its white tail.
Then its head.
It’s not just an eagle.
It’s a Bald Eagle.
An American Eagle.
The symbol of our country.
But he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care what country he’s flying over,
or what part of that country is below him.
It’s all the same to him.
The only thing he cares about is going in circles,
catching fish,
and getting laid.
That’s it.
Which, I suppose,
is pretty much the same for everybody and everything.
​
Leave No Tern Unstoned
"I was hoping there would be more."
Michael Soeteart is responsible for all of this, except for the picture of the Shrike, which was found in a thrift store. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know who the photographer is. If it looks familiar, let us know.
Among other things, Michael Soetaert has made televisions and tarpaper, sold jewelry, taught school, and written a lot of stuff. In his spare time he likes to go birding, play disc golf, and go convertibling in his Spitfire, on occasion combining all three. Fortunately, he has a lot of spare time. He lives in Portland, Oregon, where the birds sit out in his backyard and taunt him.
​
