The Day Arya Flew Over the Rooftops

I saw him soar higher and higher until he was over the roofs of the houses of Maple, a suburban community north of Toronto. Arya became smaller and smaller as he flew farther away from home.

“No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.”
—William Blake [1757–1827], “Proverbs of Hell,” in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1790)

Arya the cockatiel safe at home. I was so happy and relieved to find him safe and sound after his escapades. Photo: Perry J Greenbaum

It was a warm September day in the year 2019. Arya, an intelligent and beautiful grey cockatiel, had been living with us since June of that year. We got him from a breeder when he was two months old. So he was still a young bird when my wife took him out to our backyard, sitting on her left shoulder. We did not think that Arya could fly much, so we thought it was safe for him to go outside. He was enjoying the fresh air on a beautiful, warm and clear late summer day.

We had taken him out often when the weather was good. So, Arya was sitting quietly on my wife’s left shoulder, when suddenly startled by some noise, he opened and extended his wings, took a quick jump and Arya was in the air. I was at first surprised, could not make sense of what I was seeing. It could not be Arya flying in the air, higher and farther away from our house. I called out to him, in a kind of a hopeful reflex move, but really more of a call of desperation. But Arya would neither heed my call, my voice, nor my appeal to return home. Arya kept flying higher and farther away from our house. I know now the reason that he continued flying was that he had not yet bonded to me. That would take a few more months. But now it was an emergency. What to do?

Thoughts flooded my mind. A memory from long ago. I was worried, anxious, at first, that Arya would have the same fate as so many other house birds that fly away, including my budgie (Petey), who flew out our back door that was accidentally left open; this was in the 1970s, when I was in high school. I did not see where he flew or in which direction. I remember calling for Petey for hours; he never returned. I was heartbroken.

I would not make the same mistake. I had the foresight to follow Arya’s flight path as he soared higher and higher over the rooftops of the two-story suburban homes. He was heading south. We lived in Maple then, a bedroom community north of Toronto in the City of Vaughan. Although he became smaller and farther away, I kept my eyes on him.

I flew out the front door heading in the direction I saw Arya head to; my wife and youngest son were headed east, in a direction perpendicular to where I saw Arya flew. I was certain that was the right direction..We stopped and had a short conference. I convinced them that I was certain we should head south. We walked and called his name. Arrryaa! Arrryaaa! Arrryaaa! And so it went, walking, calling and talking.

After about 10 minutes walking in the general direction where I had seen Arya headed, I heard a faint squawk that was coming from under a black pickup truck parked on the corner. I bent down and looked under the truck. There Arya was, looking both scared and relieved. He recognized us and was happy to see us. My wife called him, and he came, the fastest we ever saw him walk. She quickly scooped him up and held Arya the cockatiel close to her body. We were overjoyed that he was unhurt. But he had an adventure story to tell all the other house birds. How he flew over the rooftops.

I made a four line song devoted to this episode:

Flying over the rooftops
a wonderful triumph of the bird who flew;
Flying over the rooftops
reclaiming the sky so breathtakingly blue,

Indeed, and so it was. This is Arya’s story, his adventure, his flying over the rooftops. But I will end this adventure story of Arya’s with one of my favourite poems, well beloved, but one that bears repeating: “Hope is the thing with feathers,” by Emily Dickinson [1830–1886]:

Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Emily Dickinson loved birds, who are mentioned 222 times in her collected poems. You can listen to a read version here, which I think captures the spirit of this particular beloved poem. Arya says it is one of his favourites.

Merci et à bientot.