A Fan Tail/Tale

My Adversary!

Just an interlude from my usual bollocks. In today's post, I'm going to eschew the esoteric science and philosophical trains of thought and derail into the mundane daily life of the Flaxen household.

Let me introduce my readers to a native bird of New Zealand, the Fantail (Rhipidura fuliginosa). Tis a small bird bedecked with bright, colourful plumage, and as the name suggests, once perched, the cheeky chappy has the habit of displaying its rear plumage in an engaging peacock-like manner. Whilst strolling/patrolling the boundaries of my estate, I'm often followed by said critter. They swoop, cavort and tumble akimbo as if bowing to my very presence. Sadly and prosaically, I've subsequently learned that their behaviour is just a response to my stirring up the insects as I walk. In other words, I provide an easy lunch for these delightful and alluring birds. 

Although undoubtedly harmless, fantails are not without annoying habits. They are often keen to enter our habitats, especially if they have easy access. Thus, garages, with their large open doors, are an obvious attraction. My shed has a large 'roller deck' door that I often leave fully open to take advantage of the clement Wairarapa weather. As I work within the shed, fantails visit on a regular basis. They dart about for several minutes, alighting and perching briefly upon the beams before buggering off. 

The Maoris hereabouts have a superstition about these rather captivating birds. If they enter your abode, they are considered an omen of impending doom. In particular, they are viewed as a messenger foretelling the news of imminent death. Does a garage and shed count? I know not. Anyway, the other day, as I was working away in the shed, carefully applying feather fletching to a wooden arrow shaft, the aforementioned portend of doom came to visit. It chirped merrily as it flew from beam to beam. Initially, I ignored the interloper and carried on with the task at hand, occasionally taking a sip of a fine cold ale. Usually, fantails depart after a few scant minutes. However, today, my diminutive feathered visitor decided to tarry a while longer, and after about 20 minutes, I decided to stop work and shoo my unwanted guest out of the shed. Now, you may ask, why bother? They are cute, inquisitive little birds without a hint of malice. And indeed, this is the truth. But I have a quirk. I have a pathological distaste for bird poop (scat begone!). Therefore, it was time to persuade the overstayer to seek solace in my insect-bestrewn garden. Usually, a quick blast from the Makita blower induces departure, but not on this occasion. After a while, I changed tactics. I embraced the power of a long wooden stick and tapped on each of the rafters upon which the fantail settled. I was hoping that the bird would get the hint. Not this fantail. I had to give him/her credit for endurance as I sent the bird flying between the beams. After a while, I realised I needed reinforcements and decided to recruit the formidable resources of the indomitable Mrs Saxon. Together, we reeled about the shed, driving the poor bird before us in a concerted effort to convince the creature to leave. In the end, we had to admit defeat and accept that this small but noble bird had gained ascendance and would no doubt leave when good and ready. In total, I/we had spent a good hour trying to remove one small bird. 

As time was drawing late, I decided to leave, and so I doffed my hat to the lone fantail, raised my glass and drank a toast to its fortitude. The bird, in turn, acknowledged my homage by promptly releasing a stream of poo. I left the door and front entrance fully ajar, leaving my guest to egress without duress and on its own good time.   

I returned an hour later to find a shed bereft of fantail.    

I was so moved by the fantail's intransigence that I decided to write a poem in commemoration. As I began to write, 'The Muse' enveloped me with its canopy of lyricistic (not a real word) opulence. Please forgive my pretension to write in a late Elizabethan style. I write as the Muse directs and also I have run out of my meds. Read and weep.

Ode to Rhioidura fuliginosa 

In yonder shed, where shadows dance in glee,

A fantail visits, a sprite of airy grace.

Its feathers, like ferret's fur, light and free,

Yet bound by fate within this humble place.

 

A man of fair countenance toils within,

An ancient soul, here upon a quest.

His aged hand doth unfurl, finger point to one siskin,*

A stout staff a goad, for the winged one, no rest!

 

With wings of dusk, it flutters to and fro,

A captive of its own enchanting whim.

Though whispers beckon from the wild below,

It stays, entranced by shadows growing dim.

 

For here, amidst the rafters, it finds rest,

In corners where the light doth softly fade.

A chirping sentinel, a feathered guest, unbidden,

In solitude, its company is made.

 

No tempest fierce nor luring song's refrain

Can coax it from its chosen sanctuary.

For here, it finds its solace, free from pain,

A creature of the shadows, solitary.

 

Oh, gentle fantail, why dost thou remain,

Within this shed, where dreams are bound to rust?

Yet who are we to question thy domain,

In shadows deep, where mysteries entrust?

 

So let it be, this feathered denizen,

A symbol of the beauty in constraint.

For in its choice, it finds its own sweet ken,

And in its flight, a tale of strength innate.

Tis here in coarse domain, the fantail tarries,

Tis here, his perch, his home within.

No longer the staff goads and harries,

A place on a beam for brave urchin.

* Please note: Siskin refers to a small European finch that bears no relation to the fantail- call it poetic licence; call it a banana. Arse