{"id":1899,"date":"2025-06-27T14:46:04","date_gmt":"2025-06-27T18:46:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/imaginedtheatres.com\/?post_type=theatre&p=1899"},"modified":"2025-07-03T13:55:32","modified_gmt":"2025-07-03T17:55:32","slug":"egretta-tricolor","status":"publish","type":"theatre","link":"https:\/\/www.imaginedtheatres.com\/egretta-tricolor\/","title":{"rendered":"Egretta tricolor"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\u00a0<\/p>\n

The whole congregation judges him, the new guy. They say he\u2019s cocky\u2014hardy har the irony, of course, being that he, like everyone else here, lacks external genitalia\u2014and they have a million more complaints about him, too, starting with each and every feather on his body. Count them up, and maybe it\u2019s not a full million, but who has the patience to go counting feathers?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Birds, unlike humans, are not racist, but that doesn\u2019t delete discrimination.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Birds, unlike humans, don\u2019t vote, but they like to keep up with the current.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Like when the new guy first appeared, the reddish egret asked if he was heading to a tea party.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And when the new guy next appeared, a black-bellied plover made a joke about his being the wrong wing. The waders gave him a polite chuckle, just as a gesture of solidarity. They got the joke, they did; it just wasn\u2019t funny. He\u2019s funnier when he\u2019s got on his non-breeding suit, but it\u2019s early July: his belly is inky and his humor falls shorter and shorter with every try.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And when the new guy next appeared, a curlew pointed to the coat room, wouldn\u2019t want to muddy his patriotism. This made the flock erupt, laughing so hard they were gulping.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Still, the new guy keeps appearing. He knows how this goes. It\u2019s not like he fledged yesterday. Shore birds are snide\u2014they\u2019re assholes, really\u2014but this mockery will abate. Surely, it will; it must. This won\u2019t go on forever, right?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

One morning, while the new guy is off finding breakfast, the birds call emergency congress. Mostly, it\u2019s petty shit, nothing that would merit punishment, much less banishment, which is the tacit goal. They\u2019ve been strategizing for more than an hour, and the tide pushes deeper into the mud. Grumpiness increases with hunger; dawn has broken to morning, and the breakfast buffet is digging down and down. Their beaks feel parched, aching to thrust into the cool wet sand.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

At last, a solitary sandpiper peeps, \u201cEnough, enough. Not a single bird has offered a single reasonable reason, and without just cause, we cannot ask him to\u2014\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Before, the congress had been respectful, reasonable, at least towards one another, but now, suddenly, before the little sandpiper could finish his sentence with all its implications, all the birds squawk at once. It\u2019s an unbearable sound, worse even than a cotillion of terns, a highness of royals in formation. Now, everyone has an idea, and every idea is more desperate than the last. Accusations are thrown about, lies and fairy tales and tales taller than the tallest snowy.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In the midst of all the raucous, the tricolored heron returns, lands right in the middle of the pandemonium\u2014and before his wings can fold back into place, everything stops: the birds, the squabbling, all the fun and games. All the birds turn and stare. The tricolored cranes his neck, looks every shorebird present in the eye. His blinks feel heavy and deep, the nictating membrane slides horizontal and back, but it\u2019s useless. One fat teardrop hits the brackish water, and every bird could hear it burst. And then another one falls. But before a third can pop, the tricolored opens his rufous wings, and the congress of birds watches the white strip of his belly fly east. The sunlight emphasizes first slate, then rust, first cornflower, then ruby: what a marvelous show!\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

That night, the sky alights with booming rage. The tricolored never returns, but every year on the anniversary of their unkindness, exuberant red, white, and blue siege the air\u2014bursting, hot, a lamentation.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n

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\"\"<\/figure><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"The whole congregation judges him, the new guy. They say he\u2019s cocky\u2014hardy har the irony, of course, being that he, like everyone else here, lacks external genitalia\u2014and they have a million more complaints about him, too, starting with each and every feather on his body. Count them up, and maybe it\u2019s not a full million, but who has the patience to go counting feathers?\u00a0","protected":false},"menu_order":0,"template":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.imaginedtheatres.com\/api\/wp\/v2\/theatres\/1899"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.imaginedtheatres.com\/api\/wp\/v2\/theatres"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.imaginedtheatres.com\/api\/wp\/v2\/types\/theatre"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.imaginedtheatres.com\/api\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1899"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}