Freyja the Gyrfalcon dislikes intrusions. She’ll flap around her mews, slap into the metal screens and flop to the floor in hissy fits. Yet when I enter to clean, such melodramatics are scarce.
I soothe her the same way you activate a newborn human’s calming reflex – with sibilance. The shushing continues until Freya settles and acknowledges me with a stare.
Is this communication, however truncated and alien?
We know many animals converse. Dolphins have individual names. Fledglings call for their dinner. Elephants grumble to their herds. Whales sing.
While here at the refuge, Baron the Barn Owl clucks at me. Ozzie the Osprey keens for her daily fish.
Even trees share water and nutrients through fungal networks, using them to send distress signals. Other trees alter their behavior when they get such alerts.
Alien communication issues are common in science fiction. For example, in the splendid “Darmok” episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation,” an alien race communicates exclusively through metaphors.
So here we fester, surrounded by communication we can barely recognize, let alone understand.
Could we be the aliens?
All about birds
How to speak Gyrfalcon
