In the classic Hitchcock film “The Birds,” based on a short novel by Daphne du Maurier, flocks of crows and other assorted large birds descend upon a small, coastal California town and wreak havoc. Multiple human dramas unfold in the midst of all this, and I am reminded of that on this sunny day as I observe the small backyard I share with another tenant being invaded by a large flock of redwing blackbirds, starlings, grackles, chickadees, and of course, the ubiquitous house sparrows. Yesterday, a much smaller grouping of blackbirds was perched in a low tree just beyond a fence, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that they were brown-headed cowbirds. It seems that, no matter where I end up, some type of bird is never far enough away to completely deprive me of their collectively joyful presence.

As my own life’s drama continues to unfold, one wing feather at a time, I am encouraged to know that, each day, I can see the same happening through a back window, albeit on an avian scale. Grackles thrash about in last year’s leaves in search of good things to eat, while female redwings peck at the fallen seed beneath the feeder. Unsatisfied with the feeder’s position on the back of an old worn post, I moved it last week to the front, where it now provides me with a clear view of the aerial action at all times. And it was with great joy that, one recent morning, I spied a pair of female goldfinches through my field glasses, poking their heads into the feeder’s openings, claiming their share of the bounty.

All around me, cardinals sing, mourning doves coo from telephone wires, hairy woodpeckers call out as they move from one inviting tree to another, and even the occasional seagull sails past announcing its presence in its eternal search for something to eat. Last week, my visit to Number One Pond rewarded me with a view of Canada geese coming in for a landing and some type of crane or heron poking along among the rushes. Not having my field glasses with me, I couldn’t identify it. But I know enough about those large birds, about their silhouettes and their body language, to know that it was indeed a member of that long-legged, and equally long-billed, family of aquatic birds.

And of course, not a day dawns when I don’t hear crows cawing from the trees that grow along the riverbank. Those that populate urban areas are sometimes a bit tamer than their cousins that inhabit the denser rural countryside. They aren’t quite as timid and linger a bit longer to observe some interesting detail or to explore some sign that food may be found close by. I often wonder how far their range is, and if I might not, by some slim chance, be seeing some old friends from a past life come for a quick visit before veering off again to points unknown.

Early this morning, after a hot and restless night, I awoke early enough to enjoy the quiet. It had cooled quite a bit by then, so I lay there enjoying the temporary peace and calm. A breeze filtered in through the curtains, and robins, the day’s first risers, began plying the air with their musicality.

And then, I heard it.

The unmistakable hooting of an owl. Not believing my ears, I lay there as still as I could, barely breathing, and there it was again ”“ the eight-note series of hoots made by the barred owl, coming, I guessed, from the pines along the river. And if that weren’t special enough in this busy, noisy, urban place, its last hoots were answered by another owl farther away.

Of course this is just a bit of romanticizing on my part, but the birds seem not to have totally abandoned me, and appear, at least to my wishful eye and ear, to be putting on their show for my benefit. I remember seeing the annual blackbird fall migration when huge flocks would descend upon the woods and then rise in a great black mass and fly away. Here, I’m seeing the spring influx, though on a smaller scale. Yet, there they are, reassuring me of their presence, diving and swooping of a morning around the feeder and then flying up into the trees or off to a distant yard on another street, only to return in full force again and again to thrill me with their antics and comfort me with their loyalty. For if these aren’t actually my Lyman birds, then perhaps they are kin to them, and the word has gone out that “she’s in Springvale now, so let’s go, because if we are sure of anything, it’s that she will have put out food for us and will be waiting ”¦”

And they are, of course, right on both counts.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Springvale, who enjoys exploring the woods of Southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.