collective nouns for birds

Photo of the Day – We all have that one buddy in birding whose field IDs are a little more than “Scary”… To celebrate Halloween, we want to pay homage to those Scary IDers. So tag your birding buddies who probably wouldn’t be able to name this bird family or its collective noun.

(P.S. If you don’t know yourself, it might be a good idea to pull that field guide out one more time)

One day, one rhyme- Day 175

I really have a love for words
But some could better, I’m sure.
The collective noun for small birds
Should definitely be an ‘Awwwww.’
I’m happy that a group of apes
Can be a 'shrewdness,’ or a troop;
I also like that chickens scrape
Together as a clutch or coup;
I’m amused that a group of cooks
Can be as a 'hastiness’ grouped;
But I also think a group of sooks
Should together be known as 'droop-ed.’

Collective Nouns for Birds

Nightingales are spending these bitter winters
along the southern coasts of Africa. Keeping
careful watch along the sea. Keeping safe the
warmly tanned babies that crawl with fervor
along the pebbled, sandy shores.

Gma is walking, hopping steps like a cricket,
lacing her feeders with sugar water to charm 
the heart beating hummers to her empty
home. I am dialing her on the phone by memory, 
saying I love you, every day.

Meantime, the moon is murmuring up and above,
over my head. In the day I dream of one
thousand starlings beating their way
through my skies. Filling my life with dazzled color 
flown with fervor from the barren Arctic Circle.

But my dearest lover is writing poetry along the
stone walls of Burlington. Sending his
happiness hurtling across the oldest buildings.
This is saccharine nectar graffiti he pulls out on a lark, 
in the midst of the blazing delirium of being loved.

He’s known all written words, kissed the
light of lakes on fire, mysterious penetrations in 
his sweetly laughing heart. He’s always feeding lovebirds
that sit alone together under porch lights, or rock
softly in hammocks under gently bowed pear trees.

But my little common swallow is wearing her 
old coat, threaded with bits of colored silks. Bluest tam, 
the tiniest feather woman blown into purple glass. She 
is making haste for the safest cove along the bay, wishing 
to be a water bird, carefree flier above the surf.

Other devils are running through snowed in towns
with deceit tattooed on their backs. Winging swiftly
through the dark, carefully concealed liars lapping
up magicked myths, distorting even the barest truths
laid out across lucid, enamored faces.

And for these voyagers, we bestow only what we know.
We place upon them the piteousness of doves.
The whiter shades of pale. The purifying redemption
of murder. Of crows. Of squeezing deeply embittered
skin until stillborn seeds pop forth like valravn 
from graves of the slain. Demanding the last breath 
from lapwings that must be rendered: 
endlessly flightless, sepelible, a most
certain unkindness.