(from the title of a poem by Lyz Soto)
But not the birds I love, although of those there are plenty. Rather,
today
it is filthy pigeons whose mess renders outdoor statues a travesty.
I am full of dusty, inconsequential sparrows, darting around
the table legs of outdoor cafes, harvesting the fallen crumbs of a
croissant.
I am full of gulls that wheel and scream over the offal flung
from the fishing vessel rumbling back to harbor after a day at sea.
I am full of grackles, raspy as the rusty hinge on a gate while they
bully smaller birds at the feeder, even preying on sparkling
hummingbirds.
To be full of crows might be better, their caws a cacophony, their
sharp
eyes and vaunted intelligence, even if they pillage eggs and chicks
from nests.
Instead, I am full of coots, or moor hens, if you prefer, that drift in
groups
along the shoreline, nothing to say for themselves beyond a squawk.
But to be full of birds—creatures millions of years older than
humans—
is to partake of infinite surprises. Of course I am full of birds. So are
you.
