The bird that did not fly south

One of the great truths in life is that bad decisions later turn into great stories.

          Assuming that you live, of course. I mean, Charles Lindbergh was the first pilot to have a good story about flying across the Atlantic. Several other pilots failed to bring their stories to life after attempting to cross the pond before Lindy got it done. I’d love to hear Amelia Earhart’s story about trying to find Howland Island, but I’ll have to read the story of the US Navy ship that sat there waiting for her instead.

          You know how it goes: One decision follows another, leading to a conclusion and then, POOF! You have a good story.

          Take, for example, the bird I saw in front of the condo this week. It is not clear why this bird did not fly south with all the other wingers last fall. Maybe this little bird-brain had an ex-girlfriend, a chick so to speak, that headed south and he decided not to go. Maybe warmth bores him.

          This idiot bird was sitting in a tree with no leaves, while snow cluttered the little branches.

          No, of course I don’t know what kind of bird this thing was. I know it was not a Philadelphia Eagle or Arizona Cardinal. It was not a Seagull, a Seahawk or an F22 Raptor. But, beyond all that, I don’t know what it was.

          I know what it was not. It wasn’t a Ford Falcon, Atlanta Falcon or Air Force Falcon. I don’t think it was a starling or a starlet and I am certain that it was not a five-star general. I know it was not Lady Bird Johnson or Larry Bird. It wasn’t the Birdman of Alcatraz.

          It wasn’t a chicken or a Chicken Hawk. It wasn’t Hawk Harrelson or Hawkeye Pierce. It did not appear to be from Kansas, so I know it was not a Jayhawk. It was not a Tomahawk. It was not an Atlanta Hawk or a Royal Air Force trainer plane (named the Hawk). I suppose it could have been a Chicago Blackhawk and thus accustomed to ice, but I did not see any skates or mouth guards.

          Whatever kind of bird it was, let’s call it Al.

          Al was small and, when I saw him, he was hopping around the branches of this little, naked tree before he became birdlike and flew away.

          Imagine the story Al will have to tell when all the other birds return from their southern retreat.

          “You would not believe how cold it was,” Al might say. “All this white stuff fell from the sky and some of it stuck to the tree. All the stuff we usually use for nests fell off the branches of the tree and every time I made a nest out of the white junk, I got wet and cold. Then the whole thing turned to water.”

          Al would ask where his friends went for the winter.

          “Oh, you know, the usual. Daytona Beach, Mobile, Pensacola. All the usual spots. But you should talk to Robin, you know, the Redbreast that usually stays around here during summer? She went to Atlanta and had the same problems you did.”

          “Could have stayed here,” Al will say wisely, “and saved all that travel.”

          Thanks for reading.