They come on a daily basis. I keep loading up their feeders and they keep eating the seeds. I don’t buy seed with corn as it makes them hog into the seed as only birdies can do… and starlings… and crows. They’re the pigs of the bird world… always looking for something shinier than what they have… fickle… deceptively cunning. Not quite as piggish as pigeons who delight in eating anything that resembles garbage and annoy me with their head bobbing, odd walking way.
I can tell a person’s gait from quite a distance. I know the way my children walk and run and skate… been admiring them for some time now… can tell how they feel from their stance… their posture. I know my eldest’s run is a cross between a gazelle and a pony and can tell how sad my youngest is from the drop in her shoulders… slight bend in her back. I can pick my son from a crowd of hockey players even if I don’t know what color his jersey is or what number he’s wearing as it’s tryouts and you’re not supposed to know who the kids are but I want to scream as no one else is noticing how amazing he looks.
Its been a long week of tryouts… or cuts. And heartache. My shoulders started slumping mid week and I’ve a slight curve in my back.
I’ve always found the word pigeon to look stupid.
Some words are just like that. You can stare at them and repeat them over and over until suddenly they just don’t make sense anymore no matter what you do. You’re left feeling like everything is wrong… not knowing who decided the word was even the word and maybe there’s a better word to describe what it is you’re trying to describe… the color red is red, a hawk is a hawk, five is more than four and A comes before B… someone decided these things. I guess that’s what the little bird has been trying to tell me all along. No matter how many times you look at something… no matter how you reflect on it… how you take it apart and put it back together again… someone else decides the way it should be and maybe it’s not supposed to make any sense.
I like the little birds coming to the feeders in my garden. Even the one who pesters me and believes he knows what he’s talking about. He’s pretty. I should see things for what they are… accept it as it is… and not feed him any corn.
The piggy birds come to the feeders when there’s corn.