I Want To Watch The Birdies, George

One of the things I greatly appreciate about my office in Connecticut is the utterly bucolic setting. My personal office is situated in the corner of the second floor and is graciously paneled with a panorama of windows. I esteem this especially because I don't often have the luxury of viewing the world around me during the course of the day. My apartment in New York only has one bank of windows facing the outside world (the bedrooms). The remaining nine windows in the apartment face the adjacent wall and windows of the neighboring building. That's a quintessential New York view if you're located on any floor beside the penthouse. And hello! I'm not Donald Trump.

The Connecticut office offers a broad view of a well maintained commercial space campus. The parking lot flanks the building, but it is populated by a mix of mature and handsome trees and an 18th century cemetery to the East. In the winter when all the trees are bare and a light snowfall has fallen, this historic patch of hallowed ground is perfectly framed. It's a charming space for which I have developed an affectionate attachment.

Alas, our lease comes due within the year and in all likelihood, we'll be relocating somewhere within a short radius. In the new office scheme, everyone will be concentrated in a precise workspace. In the spirit of equality that is the mantra of the parent company, we shall all be in abbreviated cubicles. I've no issue with that, personally; it's the people I work with and the challenge of the tasks that engage me most. However, I will miss the lovely views from my current corner of the world.

As the Autumn has progressed, I've reveled in the brilliance of the colors of the trees. The tree most immediate to my window (a tempestuous Spruce) was the last tree to leaf in Spring and the first to shed its plumage come the Fall. The other trees still parade their colorful pride and provide a suitable backdrop to my naked Spruce. Another tree, quite nearby slowly sheds its foliage and displays fat bunches of faded fruits. And here, I arrive at the point of tonight's tale.

As the season has progressed, I've noticed a migration of bird families to the area. It's not as if one or two stagger in to enjoy a respite on a branch before they continue their journey to Florida. Great whole colonies fly in, assuming dramatic patterns, swooping and arcing in the sky before migrating to a desired place to repose. They seem enamored of our little spot here.

I've watched with fascination as they descend in their large number upon a tree, foraging for whatever bits of foodstuff they consume, tending their tired wings, observing the alpha bird for the signal to resume their rigorous flight. Ultimately the pack takes wing and undulates in their curious pattern into the horizon.

Sometimes random birds deviate from the herd and land with purpose on the naked Spruce. Here I can observe all manners of birds: the small woodpeckers with their sweet red Mohawks who furiously peck at the outer shell of the branches. House finches with their faded red breasts. Bluebirds and cranky ravens. Some robins and sparrows and even the odd cardinal. I do like birds and the collection observed from this vantage point has been a great pleasure.

The downside to this seemingly Garden of Eden is this: if you have a place conducive to bird communities you run the risk of hazards. This became evident to me this week.

Take the lethal cocktail of tree berries (which the birds nosh on like my relatives would nosh on an all you can eat buffet in Vegas), mix in a change of the time with sun glare and strange light changes. Toss a slice of anal retentive window cleaning. The result? An increase in bird fatalities.

I have had a steady stream of unfortunate birds sailing pell mell into my beautiful pristine panoramic view windows. Half intoxicated by the berries they've consumed, blinded by the reflective glare of the window, they fly unconsciously into the rigid surface of my view. Sometimes they are only stunned and they catch themselves before rolling off the ledge unto the hard sidewalk two stories below. Sometimes they hit the window with such force that they bounce off the window straight to the unwelcome ground below. As the Queen Bee put it, "End of the line. Birdie Heaven."

Yesterday I had two horrific collisions. One took place while I was on the phone during a conference call. When the bird impacted the window (and it was a solid impact, leaving a circle of feathers and some kind of..fluid..tatooed on the window exterior), I screamed aloud. The thud was so hard, it was so unsettling. And then I had to explain it to a group of colleagues who thought I was probably on prescription drugs. The second was later in the day--perhaps less dramatic in impact but no less dramatic in result. It's heartbreaking.

I decided as long as these conditions lingered (and here, I'm thinking through December) I needed to be proactive. Through some research last night, I found a Cornell site that covered bird breeds, behaviors and tending. I was startled to read the first shocking lines under the category of "Collisions":

Ornithologists estimate that up to 100 million birds are killed each year by collisions with windows. These collisions usually involve small songbirds, such as finches, that may fall unnoticed to the ground. Sometimes the birds are merely stunned and recover in a few moments. Often, though, window hits lead to severe internal injuries and death.

Please excuse me while I weep for a moment.

So I looked for solutions to keep the birds from flying into the window. This site had a multitude of solutions: Post cardboard in the window to distract the glare. Build in awnings. Post plastic owls. Use spray snow or draw streaks across the window using soap to break up external reflections. Still, my favorite solution was this: For a more natural look, attach dead tree branches in front of your window. They may cause the birds to slow down and avoid the window as they fly toward it. You can arrange the branches so they don't obscure your view.

It's worth a try, no? Our office manager will have a hemmorhage.