Blue Bird

In the year Mr. Phil Poothburn dubbed 'A.F. 2,' two years after he was finally rid of his (now) ex-wife Fran, a small bird adopted a branch in a tree overhanging Mr. Poothburn's driveway as its home on one chilly Thursday afternoon.

Mr. Poothburn, a regular Discovery Channel viewer and sometime lonely man with binoculars, did not find the arrival of the bird surprising or unusual in any way. Migration, of course, was a common thing to both birds and people with shore houses. Mr. Poothburn carried on as usual.

The following morning Mr. Poothburn awoke to a bird chirping; he looked out his window and discovered it was indeed the new occupant of the birch by the driveway. But the bird's twittering was different, even, as some would say later, "not the same as other birds."

At a steady 88 beats per minute, the bird was singing away in a 12-bar blues progression in C. The melody was rough in its improvisation, certainly, and Mr. Poothburn was fairly sure that it slipped into a C dorian every now and then, but there was no mistaking it. Someone had done that bird wrong.

Mr. Poothburn did not know what to make of this extraordinary and melancholy creature. The thought of capturing it crossed his mind, but he decided against it, because he was lazy and too short to reach that high. Instead, he went to the storage closet by the garage and retrieved his conga drum.

Mr. Poothburn was definitely not a conga drum kind of guy, but the drum came from an era in the Before-Fran time, when she had been (at least, in his opinion) sucked in the (at least, what he called) herbalistic, new-age-feel-good craze. Besides putting unwanted healthy things in his tea and reminding him incessantly to take some Ginkgo Balboa, she had signed him up for a drumming circle, which she claimed would help reduce his stress. With as much grudgingly-ness as he could muster, he bought the drum, and went. Publicly, he hated it and told her as much; secretly he enjoyed it: the whole banging-on-something, raucous-cacaphonous-gleeful feeling.

So Mr. Poothburn sat beneath the branch with his conga and tapped along as the birds jumped between flats, sharps, thirds, fifths, notes with holes, and notes with stems. The bird was blue; Mr. Poothburn, a sometime lonely man with a collection of Playboys from the 50's, understood.

Eventually people in the neighborhood got curious about the weirdo with the drum, inquired, found out about the bird, and stopped by on weekends to listen and jam. One local accountant turned out to be a talented bass player, and the fabulous party hostess was also an accomplished pianist. Without anyone asking, she flatly refused to bring her Steinway grand down to touch the dirt in Mr. Poothburn's yard, but someone set up a keyboard for her, and, caught by her own web of social conventions, had no choice but to play.

Though autumn had succumbed to winter, the performances by the musicians and bird became weekend events for the neighborhood. Mr. Poothburn, meanwhile, had noticed the bird had other talents as well. One day coming home from work, he had left his car beneath the bird's branch and found the next morning a series of droppings on his back windshield. The feces had splattered into a rough transcription of "Georgia On My Mind," crescendos, fermatas and all.

One morning in the spring of A.F. 3, Mr. Poothburn noticed the beautiful, deep blues he had come to sway to while eating breakfast were gone. Instead there was happy chirping, a Vivaldi concerto which occasionally, jarringly switched to a Sousa march. Mr. Poothburn disliked classical and had and allergic reaction to Sousa, and so it was a few hours after the cortisone treatment that he dared to find out why the bird had stopped singing the blues.

On the branch beside the first bird was a second, similar, but with brighter plumage and a decorated beak. The first bird was nearly hopping up and down, strutting and puffing desperately. After it had finished tweeting a Marvin Gaye medley, there was no question as to why the bird was blue no more: his woman was back, and she done treat him right.

If birds do it, thought Mr. Poothburn. Mr. Poothburn, a sometime lonely man suddenly enlightened, withdrew as much cash as he could, found a buxom young woman, and headed for the shore.







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