Too Many People

One day after a summer storm I discovered what I believed to be an unknown species of bird flying around the tree in the overgrown lot next to our home.  Red bellied, blue backed birds flew through the rain clean air.  The shock of recent lightning and thunder were touchable in the ozone heavy air. The leaves of the enormous banyan tree that stood in the field lot were heavy with rainwater.  Walking upstairs for lunch I saw the birds veering through the low branches.

If I was a bird I would have played in that tree.  I would flown in close to the leaves as I was circling down and hit them with my wing tip to see the water drops shower my pals below.  That’s what the birds seemed to be doing.

I grew up in and around New England and have had some experience with trees and wood.  I know the northern hardwoods that burn well and those that don’t.  I know the rare woods that are used in furniture making and in gun stocks.  I don’t know tropical woods as well; except that tropical hardwoods good for making ship masts are still more highly prized for their wood than others.

Banyan looks more like an unbundled fiber optic cable of roots shooting up into branches.  I’m not certain if it’s good for anything except birds; the way coral is to tropical fish.

When I saw the first bunting, I thought I’d seen a bluebird.  What I saw was a blue flash between leaves.  Through binoculars the birds flourished a scarlet belly and throat and an upside down splash of neon green between the shoulders.  I showed the birds to my wife and to my four year old son.  I thought I’d discovered a rare species of tropical bird, half warbler, half parrot.  I dialed the local number for Audubon at their office in Tavernier.

The man who answered Audubon’s phone apologized that there was no one on call who could identify the bird I described.  For a moment I believed my discovery would fade with the day.

“But you might contact one of our retired directors,” the man said.

I thought I knew the man and I mentioned his name:  Sandy Sprunt.

“Yup,” said the man and he gave me the former director’s phone number.

I had met the man many years ago after I’d moved to Key Largo.  This man had been Chief of research for Audubon.  His research had led to the discovery that DDT was responsible for weakening the egg shells of peregrine falcon, osprey, and bald eagle.  That DDT did not break down but moved up through the food chain and was responsible for the near eradication of several species of bird had been drilled into my conscience from high school through college.  In my mind the man he had suggested I call was a legend, a kind of naturalist Sherlock Holmes.

Just after I’d met him, under the shade of many trees in his yard in Tavernier, I had the opportunity to ask him for verification about what I’d learned in the college classroom.  Was it true that due to the consumption of fossil fuels that Man was driving herself off the face of the planet?  Was it true that everyday the rainforest burned that the hole in the ozone grew?  Was it true that the seas were rising at an alarming rate due to global warming?

I asked the wise man these questions.  He responded by speaking of specific cases of extinction, like those occurring in the rainforests, and he did not generalize or make conclusions.  Science, I realized though his answers, is not in the business of prophesy.  So I pushed on.

“If you could attribute the extinctions of all these species to any one thing, what would you say the single greatest cause would be?”

“The world has too many people.” He said.

His words stopped my questions about this subject, forever.  They haunt me now and I wrestle with them in my dreams.

I called anyway; to ask about the bird I thought I’d discovered.

When he answered the phone I reintroduced myself.  He did not remember me but asked me to describe the bird.  So I did:

“Size of a phoebe, conical beak, no crest, feet like a sparrow, blue cape, scarlet belly, upside down teardrop of fluorescent green between the shoulders.”

I spoke and waited.

He asked me to describe it again.

I went through the description again, and waited.

“Nope, I don’t have it.  Now describe it one more time.  Slowly,” he said.

I did as I was asked.

“I’ve got it!” he said before I’d got to the upside-down teardrop of fluorescent green.

“What is it?” I asked.

“An immature, male, painted bunting,” he said.

I felt confused.  I’d heard of bunting before.

“Are they rare?” I asked.

“No.  They pass through here on their migration,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said and hung up the phone to tell my wife and young son.

The next day a crew came with permits, chain saws, and a bobcat tractor.  They took away the banyan tree.

The End