July 21, 2014, 9:30am On the River
The Great Bird Spirit Revisited
Breakfast is on the patio by the river. Soft breezes cool my skin, and the sounds of people laughing lift my spirits.
I’m sitting here, minding my own business, eating a breakfast burrito filled with eggs, black beans, corn, peppers, and onions while sipping a cup of Starbucks finest. All good—until a chunk of burrito gets away from me, and lands on the Spanish tile. Five sparrows demolish it before anyone can say: “Howdy, y’all!”
Now I have a flock of about a gazillion or so birds watching me. Shiny black eyes follow the movement of fork to face and back. Guilt swarms my heart. What would the Great Bird Spirit think of me?
A few more bits of food accidentally hit the ground. More follow. I AM the GBS! I feed my flock. I love their many feathered shades of brown. Feel glory in their sharp beaks that range in color from burnished orange to palest sandstone. My soul is full. I’ve accepted the spirit of the GBS and seek to fulfill her mission. I will love my feathered friends. I will feed and protect them come what may.
I sit back in my chair, replete. My plate and the tile floor are clean. The birds are satiated.
But wait! Why do they stare at me so? Why are they edging closer? With horror, I realize what I’ve done – fed them eggs – fluffy, unborn, aborted, dead, baby chicks. I’ve turned my flock cannibal. Made them eat their own kind.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The sparrows ignore my words. Edge closer. These are no longer the feathered fluffs I was feeding. They’re freaking dinosaurs—Velociraptors in miniature—carnivoristic, ravenous beasts. And I started them on this path by feeding them scrambled egg burrito. The shame.
Birds line the railing, perch on chair backs, and coat the area around my feet. Little brains whirl. I know what they are thinking . . .
It’s too late for me.
In these, my last moments, I give you this warning. Dinosaurs are not extinct. They live in your yards, masquerading as cute little birdies, and one day, they will remember what they were, the GBS will rule, and they’ll dine on Poached Peggy, Fricasseed Frances, David and Dumplings . . .
Imagining the possibilities,