Black Phoebe

There is a bird that has graced my backyard after a year of absence. As if its name—Black Phoebe—weren’t suave enough, its nickname is Flycatcher.

This small but fierce hunter swoops down spreading his feathered cape, snapping at the flying bugs who have the misfortune of falling into its radar.

You can hear the crack-crack-crack of its beak with attempt, diverting itself in midair to maximize its chances of a catch.

Unlike the hawk, which stalks the skies for long hours waiting for the perfect moment to attack, the Black Phoebe uses a rapid fire approach, taking shot after shot with every swoop.

He is so damn impressive to watch. He moves with an elegance of a Cirque de Soleil performer: graceful, fearless, heading straight towards trees and turning up at the last second, defying death, nailing the perfect landing clamping a hapless bug in its beak.

It looks effortless. The Black Phoebe does not seem to plot and plan; he simply does. After a swoop with no luck, he simply hopped about, turned around, and did it all over again.

No rumination. No regrets. Always in motion.

There is a crucial role he plays in my backyard: He keeps the bugs in check.

I want to thank him for his service, but am at a loss. He does not need me, needs absolutely nothing from me.

I can make no offering to this deity.

All I can do is tell his tales.

Ink and watercolor sketch of our mighty hero