Cuz I’m a Taveta Golden Weaver and proud to be me!
And what does that mean, you ask?
Well, the Golden part is obvious, isn’t it? Am I not glam?
But that’s where it ends. My bye-KNOW-me-all name is Ploceus castaneiceps but you can’t even say that, can you, Mr Know-It-All? Best stick to Taveta Golden Weaver. Next question…
Why Taveta? That’s about the Savannahs of Kenya and Tanzania where my people live —in the Bulrushes, you, know, like the story of baby Moses, floating along to his fortune.
Swell deal Mose had. Not like me.
Being a T. G. Weaver is rough work, mate. We males have to work —weave, weave, weave, pretty much ceaselessly, if we want to procreate. Know what I mean?
So that’s what I do—weave, weave, weave the nest! And it’s got to be neat and IN-Tree-Cut! The more IN-Tree-Cut the better, and it best be on a branch over swampy water.
Yessir, life is all about the nest. Ooh, it’s beak-breaking work.
Nature made me beak and claws specially shaped for weaving work, but that don’t make it easy. So why bother, you say? Why, well, easy!
The cutest girl birds pick the blokes what weave the best-wove nests!
And we like to to build our nests near other nice nests. Why? Well, don’t YOU look for a toney neighborhood? Some like to crowd a bunch of ‘em in one tree. Sweet! But why, you say? Why, why, why?
Search me, but that’s what I’m drove to do! Why do you carry that black box and tube? Can’t answer, can you?
Well, I got no time for foo-TAW-graffee, like you, Mr. Human—nope, it’s nest, nest and more nest, weave, weave, weave. Whew, I’m beat! That’s why I’m perching here in the shade of this window. I need a break!
And all for the cutie you see below! Sweet, isn’t she? Yeah, but she’s a brute when it comes to the nest. Never enough of it, never good enough or big enough or neat enough.
Why the swamp? Dunno! We don’t eat frogs or other swamp critters. Mostly seeds. Seeds, seeds, seeds, weave, weave, weave. And that’s me life. That’s what I do.
Do I sing? Sure I do, but humans like you call the sound of it weird. Too high and chirpy. Sounds like music to me, but who am I? Just a T. G. Weaver, that’s all.
Now, doesn’t your own life feel more interesting? I do hope you think I’m pretty-like, because that’s the one gift nature gave me. See that red stripe on my head? Beautiful, ain’t it?
But how DO you like me and my girl?
Let me know!