APRIL 29, 2026 – The sound reminds me of a grandfather clock with a malfunctioning escapement mechanism. Instead of a steady “tick-tock . . . tick-tock” we hear, “tick . . . tock-tock . . . TOCK . . . tick-TOCK” and so on, ad nauseam, day after day. The source of the erratic noise is a perseverating robin flying back and forth between its perch atop our neighbors’ fence and . . . our dining room windows.
As I watched the poor bird beat its head against the glass without learning a thing, the feathered creature initially reminded me of Mr. Douglas Buxton Field, my math teacher at Sterling School back in Vermont. A 1933 graduate of Dartmouth, the man was one of the founders of our school, named after his wife Margaret Sterling, who’d died the year before the school was established in 1958. He suffered us student fools rather generously, but at least twice every class session, Mr. Field pretended to be an ornery curmudgeon: Whenever one of us gave a wrong answer to an easy question, our esteemed instructor would take a long puff on his cigarette, step over to the wall, knock his head against it twice—symbolically—and say, “It feels so good when I stop.”
Unlike Mr. Field the robin hitting our window feels no need to stop. From this observation I conclude that its incessancy causes no pain or even discomfort. This apparent fact fits with the derogatory term, “bird brain.” By way of example, if Mr. Field had been mean-spirited, which he most definitely wasn’t, he could’ve ordered the fool of the moment—the poor kid with the wrong answer to an easy question—to step up to the wall, whereupon Mr. Field could’ve then said to him, “Now beat your head against the wall to see if you feel any pain. If you feel nothing, we know you’re a bird brain.”
Birds are known for flying into glass, often with fatal results. Scientists who study such things have determined a range of reasons—aviary vision peculiarities, reflective properties of glass, territorial impulses among certain bird species. Architects, engineers, birders, and other good-intentioned folks have devised myriad ways to deflect and discourage birds from flying pell-mell into windows. Often the solutions are realized at considerable cost. (See, for example, the $1.5 million bill for retrofitting the glass on USBank (Vikings) Stadium in downtown Minneapolis.)
For our dining room windows, I initially tried a system that was so jerry-rigged, surely I was channeling my late eccentric uncle, “UB.” The sheets of plastic I pulled from the garage, supplemented with brooms, stick lumber, a snow rake, and an ordinary lawn rake . . . added incrementally against the robin’s persistence, were exactly the sort of approach UB would’ve taken. The only difference was that he would’ve left his improvised system in place for 12 years. Mine lasted for less than an hour, given its inefficacy. Just for the record, it would’ve been taken down even sooner absent the rain.
I decided to let nature have its way. Clearly, the robin wasn’t hurting itself, so I owed no apology to bird or bird-lovers. As between annoyance over the sound and inconvenience of exploring, procuring, then installing possible deterrents, I opted for annoyance—to which I would simply adapt; good mental training, I figured, for all the annoyances in life less susceptible to elimination than a robin flying harmlessly into the window.
With a lower annoyance threshold, Beth took matters into her own hands. Fair enough. My “department” is keeping our sidewalks clear of snow—starting with the end of each snowfall. Beth’s purview is dealing promptly and aesthetically with household annoyances. Accordingly, she bought a bunch of reflective silver hanging spirals that she attached to the house above the windows. The idea is for the spirals to twist in the light and wind to deflect the robin.
So far, the singular effect is a magical dancing light show across our dining room rug, as the twisting spirals reflect sunbeams into the house. At least they’re noiseless: The robin, meanwhile, keeps banging its head against the glass—a veritable Mr. Field locked inside a classroom of Sterling algebra students shouting out wrong answers to easy questions. Beth avoids the dining room and therefore, the annoyance. Me? I’m happy as a clam pounding out a post while sitting near a grandfather clock that goes . . . “tick . . . tock-tock . . . TOCK . . . tick-TOCK.” Tempus fugit when you’re having fun pretending you’re not annoyed.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
