I hate city birds.
Not so much for the noise or the hygiene, those are pretty standard forgivable bird-things. Their calls sort of bring a sense of natural peace to an area. Similar to fountains, the sound of wind through the trees, and the silence of the conspicuous lack of children. And I can't expect them to politely order their food from french-inspired bistros, but the food there is good, so I don't blame them for pecking at yet-to-be-bussed dishes.
No, what I hate is their flight.
They swoop around with reckless abandon, as if the entire z-axis from the earth up is their personal territory, and by god they will use every damn piece of it. Diving around bicycles, parked cars, power lines, and pets. Near-missing trees, and barely-dodging buildings.
I don't trust them.
Every time I see one of these birds flying toward my face, and here in Texas, it's usually Grackles, I raise my arm to protect my face. Better to sacrifice my arm to beak-impalement, than my cheek. I fully expect them not to pull up in time, and will find myself with a psychotic flying disease machine embedded in my flesh. Seriously, I prepare myself for lancing every time I exit a building. Seeing one of them dipping and haphazardly making its way in your direction is a terrifying experience. There's no pattern to their madness. Their path cannot be predicted. I drive the Mako with more sense after consuming two-thirds of a bottle of wine.
Husband thinks this fear is hilarious. But he hasn't seen the frenetic, stomach-dropping panic of a pedestrian when one of these flying death beings didn't quite pull up in time, and one claw grazed his scalp. I have. And he looked at me with wild eyes, fight and flight experienced in equal measure. I couldn't help him. There was nothing I could say to ease the trauma of the moment. Still, I had to say something. Reach out as one human being to another, and give comfort in shared understanding of the war between birds and men.
"Oh my god. That bird was an asshole."
He turned and walked away as, what I image to be, a sense of peace and rightness washed over him. I do what I can.
And as I, now many months later, felt the breeze of a very near miss on the back of scalp, and heard the resulting caw that I assume roughly translates to "fuck off," I pulled out my phone to issue a single text.
"My fears are not unfounded."
