Curiosity 85: Magpies

Another post sparked by a poem, which I will include at the end. But first: magpies! The species I know from around here ("here" being California, but specifically the Central Valley and Sierra foothills as well as my Central Coast, where it is endemic—found nowhere else) is the yellow-billed magpie, Pica nuttalli. It resembles many other magpie species by being of distinctive black and white coloration—i.e., "pied"—but differs by virtue of its bright yellow beak.

Magpies, members of the Corvid family, are divided into three main groups: the Holarctic (black-and-white), comprising seven species in the Pica genus; the Oriental (blue and green), five species in the genus Urocissa and four in Cissa; and two azure-winged species, in Cyanopica. Here are examples of the latter three—the Sri Lanka blue magpie, Urocissa ornata; the common green magpie, Cissa chinensis; and the azure-winged magpie, Cyanopica cyanus:

All of these are found in East Asia, but a relative of the azure-winged is found in the Iberian Peninsula. In Europe otherwise, one sees the Eurasian magpie, Pica pica, exclusively. Here is "everything you need to know" about that bird:

Additionally, several birds are popularly known as magpies but in fact are not: the black magpies, Platysmurus, which are really treepies; the Australian magpie, Cracticus tibicen, a member of the Australasian family Artamidae; and the magpie-robins, in the genus Copsychus, which are actually flycatchers. But they all share that pied appearance, and humans like simple categories. 

Magpies are known to be highly intelligent. They are one of the few animals—along with the great apes, orcas, dolphins, giant manta rays, cleaner wrasses, and (so far) a single Asian elephant—to pass the "mirror test," which attempts to measure physiological and cognitive self-awareness. They are also known to be very curious.

In Chinese folklore, magpies every year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, fly into the sky to form a bridge across the Milky Way, reuniting the otherwise separated Cowherd and Weaver Girl for a single day. 

Rossini's opera La gazza ladra involves a thieving magpie who loves to steal the humans' silver, thereby wreaking havoc. (Though this characterization of magpies may not be entirely true to life.)

In Europe, the tradition of counting magpies to predict good or ill luck was first documented in 1780 with the publication of Observations of Popular Antiquities by John Brand, and the lines "One for sorrow, Two for mirth, Three for a funeral, And four for a birth." In 1828, chemist Sir Humphry Davy, in Salmonia: or, Days of Fly Fishing, wrote: "For anglers in spring it has always been regarded as unlucky to see single magpies, but two may be always regarded as a favourable omen;…in cold and stormy weather one magpie alone leaves the nest in search of food; the other remaining sitting on the eggs…when two go out…the weather is warm…favourable for fishing."

All of which has very little to do with the poem that launched this post, but isn't that how things often go? We see a reference to something in art, follow it up, and learn about a whole other world. Though in this case, that "mirror test" alluded to above does prove relevant.

Magpies Recognize Themselves in the Mirror

by Kelli Russell Agodon

The night sounds like a murder
of magpies and we’re replacing our cabinet knobs
because we can’t change the world, but we can
change our hardware. America breaks my heart
some days, and some days it breaks itself in two.
I watched a woman have a breakdown in the mall
today and when the security guard tried to help her
what I could see was all of us
peeking from her purse as she threw it
across the floor into Forever 21. And yes,
the walls felt like another way to hold us in
and when she finally stopped crying,
I heard her say to the fluorescent lighting, Some days
the sky is too bright. And like that we were her
flock in our black coats and white sweaters,
some of us reaching our wings to her
and some of us flying away.