World above our heads

I remember Safa Park when it was just a large sand patch dotted with native ghaf trees.

Over the years it has matured into an expansive 154 acres of abundant lush foliage, water features, play areas, barbecue pits and jogging tracks. An absolute outdoor haven for residents of the area.

As we enjoy the facilities at ground level, how many of us are aware of a parallel life existing simultaneously above us in the trees that make up this beautiful landscape?

Hundreds of crows, mynas, parrots, sparrows and other birds have made this park their abode.

About an hour before sunset, the trees are suddenly alive with frantic activity. Large flocks of birds fly across the skies to settle in selected foliage for the night. The park is filled with an intense cacophony of the chirping of sparrows, the melodious tweeting of mynas and the loud sharp cawing of crows.

There is such urgency in their communication. What are they saying?

Is it some kind of pre-bedtime chanting? Or a noisy mix of lullabies, gossip, news, instructions, admonition?

It sounds like a very loud, very confused orchestra directed by an intoxicated composer.

Each species has its preferences. The crows choose the large fronds of the palm trees to retire on. They balance confidently at the tip of each frond, as if to stay in full view of their surroundings at all times. Occasionally there is a tussle for bed space and a discontented resident expertly surveys the opportunities, hesitating only for a split second before dislodging a previous tenant.

The smaller species, such as sparrows and mynas, prefer bushy trees in which they can hide, possibly to protect themselves from larger flying predators.

As the last remnants of the sun's glow fades, the burnt orange skies gently give way to a blanket of steel grey; the restless flying reduces, though sound levels are still high. Social interactions of large, close-knit communities at the end of the day, sharing information, making plans for the next day before saying goodnight.

Suddenly a piercing, high-pitched call of one single bird, flying across the park, can be heard above the din. Like the matron in a dormitory it circles the trees as if to say, ‘Five minutes more to settle down.'

A few latecomers swoop in, starting another flurry of rebellious caws and chirps while they settle in the darkness.

Then just like that the mynas' quarter is dead silent. All asleep simultaneously an insomniac's dream!

Next, as if on cue, the sparrows follow suit.

Five minutes later, the flying matron is heard again another shrill reminder of the time.

The boisterous crows heed the call and settle down at last. The palm grove stands in sturdy silence, giving no indication of the pulsating life within its protection.

On ground level I stand a humbled witness to this age-old bedtime ritual. A sun-centred sleep pattern obediently followed by flora and fauna.

A feather gently floats down to my shoulder, nudging me back to my surroundings.

Barbeque pits release aromatic smoke signals, a kitten chases some insects into nearby bushes and a motorbike can be heard zooming noisily on the highway amidst the constant buzz of traffic.

Down here, we have cheated nature's clock. Days are lengthened with the flick of a switch and nights extended with the pull of a curtain.

I tiptoe away from the open-air bedrooms, afraid of disturbing the deep slumber above.

One last call of the flying matron over silent tree tops takes me back in time to a song we sang in boarding school at sunset: Day is done, gone the sun/From the east, from the west, from the sky/All is well, safely rest,/God is nigh.

Almas Menon is a freelance writer based in Dubai.