An Incomplete Catalog of the Birds of New York

In this week’s story, Victor Manibo’s young protagonist experiences a transformation, and we think you might as well... ~ Julian and Fran, June 11, 2023

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An Incomplete Catalog of the Birds of New York

By Victor Manibo

Ruby-Throated Hummingbird

Archilochus colubris

The afternoon she saw the dead hummingbird in the backyard, Amaya went through a sequence of emotions typical of an eight-year-old: an easy curiosity at the lump on the grass, followed by shock at the revelation, then remorse at the loss of something so small and pretty. She knelt on the grass and gently touched its wing. She stroked its iridescent green-fuchsia feathers, each barely the length of her finger. Then, seeing that there was no one around, she cried. A loud, piercing wail. What her older brother called her “ugly cry.” She heaved and bawled, tears and snot running in a stream down her face.

In between sobs, she decided she would bury the bird.

As she dug a hole in the grass, she wondered what had happened. Did something attack it? Was it old age? Did it die of exhaustion, always having to flap its wings in a frenzy? The questions so enraptured the girl that she completely forgot what drew her to the yard in the first place.

A soft yet insistent call. Lily. Lily. Lily.

Amaya didn’t know anyone by that name.

Later, as she scrubbed the dirt under her fingernails in the kitchen sink, she noticed a smudge on the kitchen window. A small maroon blotch. She marched out to the yard, up to the other side of the glass, and found herself standing right where the hummingbird died. She leaned in closer, and under the sunlight, she saw an impression of the bird’s head. Once more, her tears fell.

When she heard her mother calling, Amaya wiped herself dry with the hem of her shirt. She checked her reflection on the glass before heading back inside, completely missing what was beyond the pane.

On the kitchen counter sat one of her mother’s vases. It teemed with daylilies: blazing orange, resplendent, in full bloom.

Rock Dove

Columba livia

They were everywhere in the city. The pigeons, yes, but also the pimply-faced college-age kids with a clipboard, ready to impede one’s pace to ask for petition signatures, or maybe donations for a fundraiser. Bone-weary from a long workday, Amaya would have easily ignored one such canvasser. Yet this kid, wearing a beanie and high-tops, crouched over a gray lump on the sidewalk as traffic weaved around him.

“Is it dead?” Amaya asked.

“Still breathing, but barely,” the canvasser replied. He took a brown paper bag from his pocket and blew into it. Then he gingerly nudged the pigeon into the bag. He then lifted himself off the pavement, holding the open bag with both hands as though in offering.

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“I’m taking the li’l fella to the animal hospital,” he replied. He cooed into the bag, an attempt at reassurance. “This part of town’s rough on birds,” he continued, gesturing at the skyscrapers all around them and along the island’s edge.

Curious amusement compelled Amaya to help in some way, and so she picked the clipboard up from the sidewalk. Oppose the Lower Manhattan Reclamation Plan! She handed it to the canvasser, and he placed the paper bag on top of it, used it like a tray.

As she went on her way, Amaya found herself looking up. How many pigeons strike how many windows in this city on a daily basis, she mused.

Lost in thought, she walked toward the tower, the highest one in the city. She would later come to believe that something called to her on that early summer afternoon, a pull that drew her away from her subway stop. At that moment, though, all she sensed was awe, at the tower’s sheer size, its shining panes set alight by the setting sun, its lines that moved ever upward, higher than the two towers that had stood there before or would ever stand there again.

And then there were the pigeons. They flew up, past, and around the tower in a dance. Some turned sharply up, and some flew down in a nosedive.

Then a pair of them began to fly in a helical pattern, dancing upward in a fluid, spiraling ballet. She could hardly believe her eyes, until another pair of pigeons did the same.

“Did you see that?” she exclaimed at no one in particular.

It was then that Amaya first noticed the old man. As indifferent to the world as it was to him, he sat cross-legged atop one of those large concrete blocks that the NYPD used to barricade traffic. He held his head up, eyes toward the tower, uttering words that only he could hear. His manner had intentionality and a great degree of concentration, and Amaya was almost convinced he wasn’t mentally ill, despite appearances. Lifting a hesitant hand, he then began to wave at the dancing birds.

“Please tell me you saw that too,” she asked him.

The old man took a sidelong glance at her, then returned his attention to the tower and continued murmuring.

“Are you—are you talking to them?” Her tone bordered on condescension, and the old man rapidly scratched his nose.