The Outlaw Birders of Central Standard

A chilly west wind blew the gray December morning in stiffly as those adventurous outlaw birders hit the road at 7am on a Sunday. South down US 63 they headed, just past the airport, scanning the cloudy skies for signs of hawks or other birds of prey. The driver of the car, the most notorious outlaw birder in the territory, was adept at staring into the sky and keeping his vehicle on the road. Only once this entire morning did the two hear the obnoxious growl of the shoulder rumble strips.

As they pulled into their destination, ignoring the sign at the gate saying "Not for Public Use," they unpacked the tools of their nefarious trade: binoculars (pearl-handled and lightning fast), field guides (obtained on the black market), and a spotting scope (for long-distance work...and fearsome to say the least). They pulled up next to a shed, and with no concern for the laws of God or man, coolly stepped over the chain that blocked the road into the "state property."

To be honest, there was some trepidation on the part of the two outlaws. On the other side of that chain, guarded by vicious flocks of robins and cedar waxwings, stood horrors unknown. There, hanging from the chain, hung a sign, at which the two nervously chuckled : "Abandon hope, all ye who enter."

"Ha," said one to the other. Yet, inside, they felt a bit of fear rising up. A bit of fear.

A few yards into the sanctuary, they saw a cross planted in the ground. Too tall for a grave marker, but too short for a clothesline or a bean pole, the purpose of these poles was unclear. Suddenly, it dawned on one of them.

"They crucifixes."

"Crucifixes?"

"Yeah, fer crucifyin' midgets."

"Crucifyin' midgets?"

"Like Jesus."

"They crucifyin' tiny Jesuses?"

"Yeah, they hangin' 'em up all over. Look."

They crested a ridge and below them stood an expansive sunken Calvary in the middle of their world. Dozens of these tiny crosses dotted the valley below. But all were empty.

"Where all the tiny Jesuses?"

"Don't know, but it is Christmas time."

"Yeah? So?"

"Maybe they all in nativity mangers."

"Oh, yeah. Maybe."

"I got a bad feelin' about this place."

"Me, too."

"We oughta go."

"Yeah." Overhead, a platoon of marauding robins called their dastardly sweet melodies to each other.

They walked quickly back to their getaway car, these outlaw birders, trying not to betray their fear one to the other. Even a bluebird was not enough to lift the black mark of fear from their craven hearts. Their crime of choice: looking at birds on restricted state property, fearing not a whit laws or fines, Conservation police or armed militia. But a valley full of tiny Jesus crucifixes sure will get them worked up.