Noisy Wren’s Adventures

Chapter 2 - Noisy Leaves Quartzsite for California

So there I was, huddled in that dusty cave outside Quartzsite, Arizona, with Vince the Turkey Vulture and his cousin Pock, who, let me tell you, had a face like a moon crater with feathers. The storm outside was howling like a cat I once pooped on—true story, that tabby yowled for days. Anyway, I was chattering away about the Songfest in Riverside, how I was gonna belt out my one big song and show all those eye-rolling wrens back home I’m more than just a loudmouth. Pock cackled, his raspy laugh bouncing off the cave walls. “Kid, you talk faster than a roadrunner runnin’ from a snake! You sure you’re ready for California on your own?” I puffed up my tiny chest. “Pock, I’m Noisy Wren! I dodged a hawk, didn’t I? I’m practically a legend already!”

Vince, shaking water off his wings, grunted. “Legend or not, kid, this is where we part ways. Got that old jaywalking warrant in California—cops in L.A. don’t forget a vulture jaywalkin’ across Sunset Boulevard. You’re on your own to West Covina.” My beak dropped. “Wait, what? You’re ditchin’ me in Quartzsite? What about the Songfest? My cousins? My big moment?” Pock nudged me with his scruffy wing. “Relax, chatterbox. You’re a House Wren—scrappy, quick, and loud as a siren. You’ll make it. Just don’t talk yourself into a coyote’s jaws.” I gulped, but I wasn’t about to let them see me sweat. “Fine,” I chirped. “I’ll fly solo. Watch me shine!”

The storm eased up, leaving the desert all sparkly and wet, like it got a quick bath. I hopped onto a rock, gave Vince and Pock a jaunty wave—okay, maybe I was faking the confidence a bit—and flapped my wings. “See ya, you old buzzards! If I win the Songfest, I’ll dedicate my song to you!” Vince rolled his eyes, but Pock cawed, “Sing loud, Noisy! And watch out for hawks!” With that, I took off, my tiny wings buzzing like a hummingbird’s as I headed west toward California.

Flying solo was wild. The desert stretched out forever, all red rocks and spiky cacti, with the sun peeking through clouds like it was spying on me. House Wrens like me aren’t built for long hauls—short, zippy flights are more my thing—but I had my satchel stuffed with seeds and grubs, and my heart was set on West Covina and the Songfest. I was humming my song, practicing in my head, when I noticed three shadows circling above. Not clouds, not vultures—oh no, those were Red-tailed Hawks, their wings spread wide like they owned the sky. My feathers prickled. “Not again!” I squawked. “What is it with hawks and me? Do I look like a snack-sized burrito?”

There were three of them, swooping in tight circles, their sharp eyes locked on me. I remembered that hawk chase with Vince—how I’d dived and rolled to escape—and my wren instincts kicked in. I zipped toward a cluster of Joshua trees, weaving between their twisty branches like a feathered needle. “Catch me if you can, you big-beaked bullies!” I chirped, though my heart was pounding louder than my song. One hawk dove, its talons grazing the air where I’d been a second ago. I banked hard, ducking under a branch, then shot upward, using every ounce of my wren agility. House Wrens are small but nimble—bet you didn’t know we can twist mid-air like acrobats! I darted into a dense thicket of creosote bushes, their smelly leaves hiding me from those hawk eyes. The trio screeched, circling above, but I stayed low, hopping from bush to bush until they gave up and soared off, probably grumbling about missing their wren lunch. “Ha!” I chirped, puffing out my chest. “Noisy Wren: two, hawks: zero!”

I was feeling pretty proud, but flying and dodging hawks is exhausting. My wings ached, and my satchel was getting light—too much snacking during that hawk chase, I guess. By dusk, I spotted a human rest stop, one of those places with picnic tables and trash cans overflowing with goodies. Perfect for a quick nap and a seed refill. I glided down, landing on a table littered with crumbs. “Jackpot!” I chirped, pecking at some pretzel bits. Other birds were there too—sparrows, finches, even a cocky mockingbird who mimicked my chirps just to mess with me. “Very funny,” I muttered. “Wait’ll you hear me at the Songfest, buddy.” Rest stops are like bird magnets—lots of us stop for snacks and a breather, which, I learned the hard way, makes them a buffet for something else.

I was munching away when I heard a low growl, like a dog with a bad attitude. I froze, a pretzel crumb stuck in my beak. Peeking over the table’s edge, I saw it: a coyote, lean and scruffy, with eyes glinting like he’d hit the jackpot too. His nose twitched, sniffing the air, and I realized this guy knew rest stops were bird central. “Oh, feathers,” I whispered. “This guy’s not here for pretzels.” The other birds scattered, the mockingbird zipping off with a smug “told ya so” chirp. I couldn’t fly yet—my wings were too tired—so I had to think fast. Coyotes are quick, and those jaws could snap me up faster than I could say “Songfest.”

I hopped off the table, clutching my satchel, and scurried toward a trash can tipped on its side. “Hide, Noisy, hide!” I told myself, diving into the can. It smelled like old burgers and soda, but I wasn’t picky. I burrowed under a crumpled napkin, holding my breath as the coyote’s shadow loomed. His snout poked into the can, sniffing so close I could feel his hot breath. “Not today, pal!” I thought, and then I had an idea. I grabbed a grub from my satchel—yep, one of my precious snacks—and chucked it out the can’s opening. It landed with a plop, and the coyote’s head whipped around. “Go get it, mutt!” I chirped under my breath. He pounced on the grub, chomping happily, and I took my chance. I shot out of the can, wings buzzing, and flapped into a nearby mesquite tree. The coyote looked up, confused, then trotted off, probably thinking he’d scored enough for one night.

I perched there, panting, my heart racing but my spirits high. “Noisy Wren: three, predators: zip!” I crowed, though I kept it quiet in case that coyote had friends. The stars were out now, twinkling over the desert, and I could see the faint glow of California in the distance. West Covina was close, and the Songfest was closer. My cousins would be waiting, probably with a nest full of stories and maybe some extra seeds. I fluffed my feathers, ready for the last leg. Sure, hawks and coyotes were tough, but I was tougher. And when I got to that Songfest, I’d sing so loud they’d hear me back in Texas. “Watch out, Riverside,” I chirped. “Noisy Wren’s comin’ to steal the show!”