Friday, 3 September 2010


..what a horribly unjust epithet.

I seriously know humans who are way less conscious than some birds.

This morning, the little male Sparrow who is raising chicks in one of the abominations of lollipop-ed Cape Ash trees below the smokers' balcony saw me and barrelled straight towards me, alighting on the guard rail a handspan from my elbow.
He chirped and looked me up and down. I had no crumbs for him today, so I apologised, saying I'd bring some in the next hour. Not good enough, apparently. He hopped up and down, chirping madly, flew away and returned shortly with a feather in his beak.
 The feather was deposited on the tiles, where it blew to land at my feet. I picked it up and left to store it with all the other gifts from the Sparrows I've accumulated over the years: feathers, both wing and down; flowers, plants.
Then, feeling under pressure from a bird a tiny fraction of my size, I grabbed a rusk and went back outside, where I crumbled it for the little fellow.

Don't talk to me about birdbrains...