Oprah Winfrey can tell you about the great bowerbird; the queen of all media seems impressed, for what it’s worth.
I once had this nature documentary on DVD, is how she was talking to me. I heard her narrating its courtship rituals, watching while it built its sex tent. Beautiful twigs, fine beans, pearlescent berries dot the floor of its woven house, waiting for some ladybird to pass by. Oprah calls it a common bird, and I don’t know how she can say that with a straight face. It’s like a diabolical realtor, selling dreams to its many mates. This could be yours, the bird whispers. No money down.
When birds fuck, they hover, kind of.
It’s not like rutting, not like banging until the bedsprings break. It’s gentle and dignified and over in a flash. That part isn’t fun for anyone, sure, but it’s better than watching a frog laboring through the murk of a pond, carrying another angry frog on its back. It’s better than watching a tomcat rape a tabby. Like all things with birds, there’s only a suggestion of movement – a shadow of lovemaking.
You wonder whether you actually saw it happen, or if you were misunderstanding. If you blinked, you could still convince yourself that you’d seen it. Have you ever seen a hummingbird, or thought you saw a bug, only to realize it’s a hummingbird? That’s one of their greatest tricks – we’re never sure what they’re up to; they’re not as vulgar as we are, not all about airing their dirty laundry.
Jenn Salcido is a writer based in Los Angeles, CA.
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