One of the most familiar sounds of the forest is the chickadee-dee-dee of the Carolina chickadee. This tiny bird calls with so much charisma and spirit that the entire species was named for the sound they create, and the name fits well. The black-and-white capped bird often pops up nearby, unexpectedly close, just to speak with the human entering its forest. Humans tend to ignore the call, ignore the warning that the curious bird sends out to the rest of the forest. The rest of the animals listen to the chickadee, listen to the front-line guardian of their world.

Walking through the forest, I heard that characteristic, buzzing chickadee-dee-dee long before I saw the bird making the sound. After a couple calls, a titmouse joined in with a scold, and I finally spotted the mixed flock of chickadees and titmice. Their small silhouettes darted this way and that around the trees, and I stopped to observe them.

The forest life pays attention to the chickadees, and often, a good way to see other birds is to watch a group of chickadees. These chickadees, the altruistic birds that revealed their position to send out a warning if they perceived any danger, are good companions, with eyes and ears ready to find potential threats. If a hawk were to fly by, the first birds to call out about it would be the chickadees, and the warning would help protect all of the birds there.

I was correct to wait near the chickadees, for only moments later, I watched a song sparrow spring across the path and heard the yank-yank of the nuthatch.   A flicker flew high in the air, its white rump and golden shafts visible, and a hairy woodpecker beat a slow pattern onto a tree, like knocking on a door. High above, a flock of grackles past me, followed by some geese.

These birds correlated in this area for a reason, and it wasn’t because there was more food around. All the species around me – the brown creeper hopping up the side of the tree, the cardinal lurking in the thicket – were here because of the chickadees and titmice. This loose, mixed flock of birds knew to listen to their guardians and stay close.

Humans tend towards ignorance. They ignore the chickadees warnings, even when the chickadee speaks their own language. Even when the chickadee, rather than calling out a general warning, speaks of statistics. Even when the chickadees are experts in what they warn us of. The chickadees surround us as humans. We hear chickadees say that flame retardants and chemicals cause disease and death. We hear chickadees say that western ideals threaten our very lives and survival. We hear chickadees say that we have very little time and that immediate action is necessary.

We don’t listen. Just as we, as a historic people, ignored and brushed the facts of human genocide under the rug – genocide in the Americas, genocide in Rwanda, genocide is Bosnia, genocide caused by American policies – we ignore the voices that speak out against the death of our very planet, a death that will only lead to more genocides of human lives.

We live on the bones of the slaves, on the bones of native Americans, and soon we will cover them with the bones of our very planet and all those the planet takes with it. It’s time to listen to the chickadees; it’s time to become the chickadees. And hopefully, when people listen, they’ll recognize that the dangers we speak of, the dangers that threaten our very survival are worth listening to, are worth reacting to, and finally, finally, people will begin to care. For just as the flicker cares about the chickadee, so should the people care about those who speak out against the injustices of our society.

In another area of the forest, I stopped to observe what was around me. As I paused and listened, I saw a couple sparrows bouncing in the underbrush. In order to see them more closely, I used a common technique among bird-watchers. I made a loud string of sounds, psch-psch-psch-psch. These sounds were fast and buzzy, strung together in a way that made it similar to a chickadee calling dee-dee-dee-dee. Within moments of me becoming the chickadee, a kingfisher rattled behind me and no less than fifteen white-throated sparrows and song sparrows emerged from the brush in front of me. They looked about for the danger; they called out a high, loud seet, and they watched for a long minute.

The birds listened to me, as I pretended to be a chickadee.

Now time for the people.