The Knocking Bird

I first heard the noise early Sunday morning as I drifted, cozy and warm under my comforter, in that pleasant, hazy nether-world between sleep and wakefulness.

Later, my mind would process the sound as similar to a baseball hitting the side of the house. But at first, it simply registered as a rapping noise, solid and definite – once, twice, three times in two- or three-second intervals.

I ignored it and drifted gently back into slumber. Only to be awakened by the same insistent sound – once, twice, now four times, clearly audible above the soft buzz of the furnace.

“What the hell is that?” I asked myself, now fully awake and attentive. And as I lay there, I heard it again and again and still once more. It was then that I remembered where I had heard such a noise before.

It sounded like the knocking bird.

Aerial assaults

For years, the Legend of the Knocking Bird has entertained the Gunnels household.

It all started when the kids were still youngsters. One morning as my wife worked in the kitchen, she heard the sound of something striking one of the panes of the bay window in our breakfast nook. Turning around, she observed a small bird launching itself at the window, slamming into it and fluttering downward.

Regaining altitude, the bird flew again into the window – and again and again – while Marice watched dumbfounded.

After a half-dozen tries, the bird perched on the crape myrtle that grew next to the window, gathered what bird-brained wits it had, and flew away. Over the course of several months, it would return periodically, always at the same time of morning, and launch itself at the same pane of glass.

Initially, I was skeptical. But when both of my children saw the bird's antics, I was forced to conclude that indeed something strange was afoot. Finally, I witnessed the aerial assaults myself on two separate occasions. They remain two of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen.

What did it want?

Over the years, Marice and I have shared the knocking bird story with friends and family. The most popular theories are that the bird was acting under the influence of some form of hallucinogenic berry or that it was trying to reach the colorful fruit that decorated our kitchen wallpaper.

I preferred a more fanciful explanation. Something along the lines of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” When the knocking bird finally ceased its futile ramming, I was a little disappointed. But also strangely relieved. The second time I had viewed its frenzied efforts, I had felt a vague sense of foreboding. What in the world did it want?

It’s been almost 20 years since the knocking bird’s last visit, but its memory – and the mystery of its actions – haven’t faded. So as I lay in bed Sunday morning contemplating the strange rapping sound downstairs, I immediately thought of our feathered battering ram.

I threw on a robe and slowly walked downstairs, listening closely for the sound I somehow knew would repeat itself.

As I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard the knocking sound, now clearly coming from the sitting room at the front of our house. Walking swiftly into the room, I determined it originated outside, near the southeast window.

I approached the window. Looking up, I saw a small bird – smaller than a sparrow – come to rest on the top branch of the crape myrtle growing in front of the window. It seemed to look my way, then flitted off, carried along by a stiff northern breeze.

Weird affairs

I made a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the morning’s events. Had the noise that awakened me been the small bird slamming itself against the sitting room window? It seemed highly unlikely. Ridiculous, really. And yet?

When Marice got up sometime later, I told her about the sound I had heard earlier.

“Oh, my God! Was it the knocking bird?” she asked immediately.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, no, of course not. But it was weird.”

“Yes, and this is weird, too,” she said. The day before, she and my daughter had been preparing to leave on a shopping trip when they noticed two small birds perched on the sill of the large arched window over my front door.

“They had blue heads and were just cute as could be,” she said. “They were just sitting there, looking through the window at us. I’ve never seen a bird do that. Have you?”

“No,” I said thoughtfully. “I never have.”