The idea: A fable about uncertainty, and courage.
For thousands of years the
chickadee community of Albion had weathered the cold winters as all
non-migrating birds in temperate climates do: They hid food (often tens
of thousands of tree seeds each) in the fall. They moulted new heavier
plumage just before winter. They scavenged nutrition from pine cones,
maple sap, and even the dead prey of coyotes, which they'd learned to
imitate to alert their community to the presence of fresh carcasses.
They maintained a generous 'grazing' area for the flock, which normally
included a dozen chickadees, plus a few nuthatches and titmice. And
they hibernated at night, burning just enough fat to maintain their
body temperature above the hypothermia level, so they could reawaken
themselves the next day without depending on solar warmth.
But then one day some loud machines arrived in Albion and bulldozed
down many of the trees the chickadees and their community-mates
depended upon. Fortunately one old human put up a set of feeders in one
of the clearcut areas, and another planted sunflowers in another
clearcut area. So there was still an abundance to live on. But one of
the chickadees was worried what would happen if the human destruction
continued. That fall, she looked longingly at the flocks of other
birds. Calling to the other birds in her community, and bidding them to
follow, she rose up to join a flock of migrating geese. They briefly
responded, thinking perhaps the agitated little chickadee was alerting
them to a fresh source of food. But when they saw she was flying beyond
the limits of their community, they broke ranks and returned. Deserted
by her community, the would-be migratory chickadee turned around and
rejoined her flock.
The following year, the humans destroyed more of the natural bounty of
Albion, and where there had been sunflowers growing there was now a
huge building filled with frightening sounds and a terrible smell. That
year snow came early and for the first time, the chickadees knew they
would have to depend on the old human's feeders. Once again, the
agitated chickadee urged the others to join her in migrating to a new
and more natural home, but the other chickadees ignored it. Chickadees
don't migrate -- they bulk up and, when necessary, hibernate. This was
the only life they knew.
Except this time, the worried little chickadee didn't turn back. She
flew higher and higher, lagging behind the other creatures in their
graceful formations all headed to a more hospitable home for the
winter. She headed in the same direction, determined to follow them,
until she disappeared from view.
The following spring the kind human stopped coming out each day to fill
the feeders, and yet more of the trees were cut down and its natural
vegetation replaced by the humans' hard and barren constructions. But
the migrating chickadee didn't return, so the others didn't know if
she'd found a better home, a kinder and more natural place, or not. The
alpha chickadees told the others that they would just have to make the
best of a difficult situation. But the rest of the chickadees were not
happy. Maybe the migrating chickadee was right, maybe she had found a
new home untouched by these terrifying humans and their machines of
destruction and scarcity. But chickadees weren't meant to migrate, they
weren't built for it. Yet they noticed other small birds and even butterflies migrating -- perhaps this was the natural way, perhaps chickadees had merely forgotten how to migrate. When the fall came, some of the chickadees practiced migrating, and they watched the other birds intently.
And as the first snow began, one of the remaining chickadees called to
the others, using the alarming call of the coyote: It's now or never.
We cannot continue on like this, or we will all die. And the other
chickadees, all of them agitated now, called back: How do you know?
Maybe it will get better again. This is our home -- we cannot leave.
But their debate was drowned out by the roar of the bulldozers, making
room for yet more of the humans' strange and unnatural buildings with
their deceptive and dangerous invisible walls, and more of the humans'
loud and frightening creations with the four rolling feet and the two
eyes bright as suns. And all of Albion was filled with dust and tar and
screaming.
Item: House sparrows have virtually vanished from London; declared endangered species.
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MADE IN CANADA
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