pigeons and power drills

 For a long time there was just the occasional bird on my balcony, once a raven, once a blue jay, and some others that I could not tell right off what kind of bird they were.  They seemed to be lost or maybe just exploring for no apparent reason.  Then a few years back the house finches appeared feeding on my sunflowers.  A spirited, chirpy, lean and graceful breed I was soon putting out seed for them. This went on for some years, but then this fall I noticed that they suddenly seemed fat, and instead of perching prettily on the railing they were hopping like a mob all over the floor of the balcony, and looking closely I discovered they were not finches at all.  A little internet research revealed that they were sparrows.  Further research revealed that sparrows were terrible birds, pushing eggs out of other birds' nests and replacing them with their own and outright attacking other birds just for the sport of it.

Further internet research revealed that they don't do any of that. I had just somehow stumbled on a band of bluebird lovers who for some reason had it in for sparrows.  I have no idea why, but you know, the internet.

I still see the finches occasionally passing through, checking out the old homestead, but repelled by the sparrow mob, the morlocks to their eloi, moving on.  Oh and I have a lonesome dove who keeps to itself pecking morosely on the floor, and most recently these two pigeons.  

A pigeon on Daley Plaza is just one of a crowd pecking around with one red eye out for some saint with a pocket full of seed or popcorn or whatever who they immediately mob in almost blood curdling manner.

But up in the austere reaches of the 21st floor they are much more dignified, and when they decide to fly from one end of the railing to the other they are a fantastical flurry of feathers.  My heart in hiding stirs for these birds.

I always see just these two, never any others, and rarely one alone.  And I was thinking my my, they must pair for life and that seemed like nice behavior and made me like them even more.

But further research revealed that almost all birds mate for life, even those uncouth sparrows.  I guess even those awful birds who push eggs out of other birds' nests mate for life.  

However nosy scientists have discovered that there is bit of cheating going on, but not nearly as much as among us mammals, and the reason appears to be those very mammary glands that give us our name.  Once the egg is laid both parents contribute evenly to the raising, while only the female mammal can feed the young, and this leads to an uneven balance and this weakens the partnership.

That is quite some kitchen you have their Old Dog, shipshape like a good galley should be.  And I am glad to hear the culinary arts are not being neglected.  I reckon that hole in the middle of the Finnish rye was so that you could put your arm through it and carry it along and maybe even take the occasional bite from it as you were lopping off the heads of good Christians to the south.

My limited (their choice) experience with women has led me to believe that the aroma of the kitchen does melt the feminine heart.  I suggest that once the pandemic fades Old Dog could tuck a cookbook into his pocket so that the title is prominently displayed, and strike up conversations along the lines of fennel or tarragon.

I have neither chain saw nor band saw, but I do have a power drill, one of those things that looks like a pistol.  I have to admit that I was surprised when they sold it to me.  Did they have any idea who I was?  Not long after I moved into the condo I drilled holes in the walls so that I could hang up my deathless art to inspire myself to even greater heights of, I don't know, artiness.  That was twenty-eight years ago and it has been sitting on the same shelf ever since.  Maybe I should take it out of its box after this post just to see if it still drills.  Prolly not though, I might hurt myself.