Birds, Volume 5

This is the fIfth of the mid-weekly posts sent to all those on the Birds list. If birds aren’t your thing, you can unsubscribe from these posts by going to the manage your subscription page. But do have a read anyway – you might find that birds are, after all, your thing. And if they are especially your thing, you can upgrade for £4 a month to access the second half of these emails.

Right, that’s the selling over with. On with the birds. Thanks for reading. No audio this week, I’m afraid, as I’m on the move.

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It’s just hanging there, all casual like. No big deal, just pivoting on the air above a cliff, the way you do. An angular silhouette against the sky – Hopkins’ dapple-dawn-drawn falcon, in its element.

A miracle, some might say. And they’d be nearly right.

“Down,” says gravity. “You will, whether you like it or not, be drawn towards the centre of the earth. Newton said so.”

“Up yours, Newton,” says the kestrel. “I’m staying here. And you know what? I’m not going to move a muscle, not even a twitch. Just you watch.”

And you watch. The cheek of it, the absolute barefaced sod-you-I-don’t-play-by-your-rules gall.

When it gets it absolutely right, the whole body is motionless. A freeze-frame, locked in the memory. And then the wind shifts – that’s wind for you, never doing what you want – and remedial action is necessary.

But here’s the thing.

You never see a kestrel panic.

There’s no hint of ‘aaagggghhhh shiiiiiiit I don’t like it too HIIIIGGGGHHHHH’. Just a tail flare, a shift of angle, and then – if necessary – the wings kick in. Fast but not furious, doing what it needs to do, the eye on the prize below.

And all the time the head stays still. Quite, quite still.

It’s a question of anatomy. Muscles and tendons combine to make the head stabilisation a doddle. Throw in an enlarged accessory optic system and you’re good to go. And it’s easier if there’s a nice stiff wind. They like the wind, kestrels. A good cliff-edge updraft, cushioning and supporting.

Head still, focus gaze, target vole. As close to a miracle as makes no difference.

They happen all over the place, these miracles. Gravity, defied.

The herring gull, wings outstretched, floating almost to a standstill, cocking me a glance as if to check I’ve noticed its prowess, then wheeling round with the merest tilt of its body away below the cliff edge.

The six goldfinches bouncing overhead, united in purpose, their trajectories slightly out of sync. Short, rounded wings doing heroic work. The exuberance of these birds, their sheer bubbling babbling excitement – we’re goldfinches! We’re flying! – you could power the grid with it.

A skylark – the year’s first – spiralling upwards in a brief early-season skydance, a snatch of its song carried on the wind to my eager ears. I scan the sky in hope not expectation – it’s a microscopic dot in a vast blue canvas – and by pure luck I catch it parachuting down, an insubstantial brown feathery scrap.

A wood pigeon erupting barrel-chested from a tree, barging everything – branches, leaves, air – out of its way in its urgency.

The blackbird’s desperate flurry – shit shit shit shit SHIT – low over the road and into the hedge.

Starlings, obviously.

And don’t get me started on hummingbirds.

It’s everywhere, this flight malarkey. An everyday miracle, taken for granted.

Look up and cheer.

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As you can probably tell, the subject of flight in the animal kingdom fascinates me. So much so that I wrote a book about it.

Taking Flight is the evolutionary story of life on the wing – or, as the forthcoming paperback edition (out on 16th May) has it “how animals learned to fly and transformed life on earth”.

Publishing’s an odd old business, not least the ‘publish it in hardback first and then in paperback a year later’ aspect. The upside of this pattern (from the writer’s point of view) is of course that you get two bites at the marketing cherry. Same book, new look.

In this case it enables me to trumpet the fact that Taking Flight was shortlisted for the Royal Society Trivedi Science Book Prize last year, which I’m still pinching myself about (honestly, just look at all the other people who have failed to win it). And I also get to trot out some of the things people have said about it.

“This book soars… Parikian is a nature writer at the top of his game.” Steve Brusatte, author of The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs

“This is a soaring, joyful book, filled with the wit and wonder of aerial gymnastics, deep time, evolution and biology. It might just be the nearest thing to flight in a literary form.” Patrick Barkham, author of Wild Isles

“Taking Flight is a triumph of science communication. Full of surprises, insights and connections, I found delights with every turn of the page.” Amy-Jane Beer, author of The Flow

As if this wasn’t enough, I also get to be excited about the new, spiffy cover – a complete departure from the look of the hardback, but equally pleasing.

If publishing’s an odd old business, writers are even odder-older. On the one hand we like to think we’re above the grubbiness of selling our work. The creative act is all – bringing a book into the world satisfies and enriches the soul more than material success ever could.

On the other hand, who am I kidding? Grubbiness is my middle name.

So, bearing that in mind, I ask if you might help besmirch my immortal soul yet further.

Pre-order the book, perhaps (this is brilliant for building anticipation and telling the algorithm/bookshops that there is demand for the book). If you have an independent bookshop near you, I think they’d be very chuffed if you were to order it from them

Tell a friend.

Share it far and wide on whatever social media channels are still available to you. And if you’ve already read it, a review somewhere would mean an awful lot.

Here are some links: Bookshop, Hive, Waterstones, Kindle. For non-UK readers, Blackwells is probably your best option, although I’d be delighted to hear from you if you have other information.

So there you have it. A newish and beautiful thing. I’m very proud of it. Thanks for getting this far.

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Have you ever thought about why birds’ legs are so thin and delicate?

Maybe you haven’t. But I bet you are now.

Anyway, here’s why.

Thanks for reading. That might well be quite enough bird talk for you. If it isn’t, below is a very brief thing about migration, with the promise of a longer thing coming soon.

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