It was early in February, around 5 o’clock in the afternoon, about half an hour to sunset. Above my head waved the countless branches of trees, fluttering in the wind like a troupe of aristocratic maidens swishing their long trains around at their débuts. Birds fluttered hither and thither, whistling and calling in their shrill tones, all hustle and bustle and rush, darting off here one moment, and perching on a branch the next—only to dart off again a couple of seconds later. I watched with amusement as a yellow-bellied tit cocked its head, first from one side, and then to the other, giving little chirps, as if to say expectantly, “Come on—come on!” I watched as he pushed off into the air and soared off in such a tiny lapse of time that all I remembered of his flight was a long brown streak in the air.

Before long I noticed a dove land on the park fence. Its large, dewy eyes seemed to imbibe all the details of its surroundings. I lifted myself slowly; my head was beginning to throb a little from lying upside-down on the hillside so long. I rose and cautiously ascended the little hill to where the fence was. I was about two meters away when suddenly the dove fluttered off in a flurry of brown and grey feathers. My shoulders drooped, and I sat down again, and hugged my knees to my chest, looking about me, trying to observe everything at once, as the dove’s eyes seemed to be doing.

And then I heard it. Hoop, hoop, hoop—it was coming from a nearby tree. I knew that call. It was a hoopoe’s call. Hoop, hoop, hoop—there it went again. Now if you’ve never seen a hoopoe, it is a little orange bird, slightly smaller than a dove, and with a leaner, slenderer body. It has stripes along its wings, alternating ginger, black, and white, thus giving it a most stunning appearance. Additionally, the hoopoe has a little streak of “hair” on the top of its head, and when it is excited, the hair stands straight up, and an observer can notice that the hair, too, has alternating stripes of ginger, black, and white. The hoopoe also has an extraordinarily long and curved beak, which it uses to stick into the ground to search for insects. In this desert country, a hoopoe is quite a spectacle, not because it is rare, but because amongst a countless number of dull-coloured birds, the hoopoe’s magnificence truly stands out.

Upon hearing this call, my heart lifted. A hoopoe was near! I strained my ears, shutting my eyes for better concentration, and tried to figure out where the hoopoe had its perch. It sounded quite near. As still as possible, I opened my eyes again and scanned the park fence. No, as far as I could see, no hoopoe was perched along it. I strained my ears again. It was coming from the left. It must be in a tree. Cautiously I crawled to the nearest tree, extended my body until I stood my full height by the trunk, and looked up. There were sparrows, tits, and doves in this tree, but I could not spy any hoopoe. So I returned to a stoop, and crept in a squatting position over to the next tree, which was a much smaller one, and whose leaves were flatter and more widely spaced. The hoopoe’s call was much stronger now. I crept along until my knees touched the smooth bark of the tree, and ever so slightly, raised my head. There it was—the hoopoe, sitting contentedly on a high, narrow branch, arching its slender neck gracefully, and emitting low, short whoops, hoop, hoop, hoop, always three in succession. The hoopoe was not facing my direction, so in glee, I wrapped my arms around the tree branch, and after looking about to ensure that no one was watching, hauled myself up the tree. Thankfully the first crotch of the tree wasn’t too high for me to make an easy leap, although I did have to scrabble a bit at the trunk before I could get onto it. Once on, I sat astride, gazing, awestruck, at the little whooping bird.

From time to time, the little hoopoe would spread its wings, and hop a little higher or a little lower on its perch. As it did this, its line of hair would fluff up and I could see its pattern vividly. But after a few minutes, I wished to take a closer look, so I carefully and slowly extended my arm forward and gripped the next crotch of the tree. Ever so slowly, I pressed the ball of my foot against the crotch I was currently sitting on, pushing myself forwards onto the branch, until I was nearly flat against it. Then my other arm I extended, and gripped the higher crotch strongly. My feet left the first crotch and I was using purely the strength in my arms and my sense of balance to keep me from falling. Ever so slightly, I inched forwards, using my knees to scoot me further up the tree, until at last, I was able to rest my strained arms and nestle into the second crotch. I was much closer to the hoopoe now, only about two major branches below it. Just then it hopped aside suddenly, as if startled, and I was able to see its beautiful feathers expanded as it fluttered off a little further up the branch. But the prettiness only lasted a moment; now the leaves of the tree obscured the hoopoe from my sight.

I muttered under my breath, frustrated, and carefully stretched myself so that I leaned against one of the branches that formed the crotch. I was more than two meters off the ground now. Ah yes, I could see the hoopoe better now. The hoopoe called a few more times, thrice in succession, and then skipped to a branch directly above me.

I had to tilt my head much further back to see it. A sudden rush of warmth surged through me as I realized I was falling. I had leant to far back and lost my balance. I threw my arms behind me to break my fall, but nevertheless succeeded in getting my backside, spine, palms, and elbows thoroughly sore. The hoopoe started at my sudden blunder, and flapped off into the distance, and was lost among the trees.
I sighed with pleasure and marveling adoration as the hoopoe’s slim and graceful figure melted into the distance, and my heart seemed to soar with it as I watched it slip between the branches of tree further down the park path.

After the hoopoe disappeared, I blew onto my palms to ease the throbbing pain that smote them. I was lucky I hadn’t broken a leg falling from that height. I massaged my elbows as well, for they ached, and pounded my back a few times to keep it from hurting. I rose stiffly. I would have to wait a few hours before I could walk comfortably again, for a few minutes’ worth of observing a little piece of God’s nature. But that is how God has made it—His nature, His work is so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, that even the smallest of His creations can make bruised palms and elbows overlooked—to the point of being enjoyed. Yes, I had enjoyed watching the hoopoe while it lasted, and enjoyed, despite my aches, watching it flap away, the setting sun glinting off its pretty wings and creating a little black silhouette in the sky.

“And that is how God makes it, isn’t it, little hoopoe?” I murmured to myself, for the hoopoe was long gone. But I smiled, and even at home I remained smiling. For that is the magic and beauty of nature: it is so healthy and refreshing and satisfying to the heart, even in its subtlest forms.