Bird Brain

We have been besieged by birds. Or rather by the same house sparrow who is either taking his appellation too seriously or is too dim to realize that for all the six-foot plants and bird figurines, the inside of the apartment is NOT really a garden.

Although appropriately beady-eyed, s/he is quite cute and I’d be happy to let it build a nest and fly around, chirping and festooning sundry objects with poop. Only, it panics every time it sees me and then crashes into the window panes in a futile attempt at freedom and then I begin to worry that it’ll have a heart attack and die right in the living room, which as the room-designation confirms, is not meant for dying. So I and whoever else is at home open all the windows we can and herd birdie thence.

The first day this happened the whole exercise felt flattering (really did make that living room look like a garden) and noble (saved a living creature). Then it got to be a boring chore. Even bird poop has lost its allure, lately. Although that has been compensated for by my newfound appreciation for the term “bird brain.”


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