Aphelocoma californica

Shreep Shreep Shreep the lullaby of my childhood, the plaintive call of the ubiquitous scrub jay has roused me from sleep from day one, snapped me out of a musing, brought me back from a day dream, grounded me in the now. Its blue blue feathers, otherworldly, found in the garden, on the ground, after a coopers hawk's dinner, sadness for the jay, this ever-present bird, a sound I took for granted, every day, like breath, does not fly where I am going. There are other jays, but not this one, so the sounds of my days will change, and the shreep shreep shreep will be silenced for me. Of all the things I will miss, the Pacific Ocean, the dry sunshine, the redwood trees, this I will miss the most. I will listen for the Blue Jay, and if I am lucky the Florida Scrub Jay, but alas they will be second fiddle to my childhood soundtrack. Listen up my Californians, the Western Scrub Jay is calling.