guff

A Sparrow, Maybe a Hawk, But Not a Parrot

I want to be a bird.

There are the blatantly obvious reasons for this. The opportunity to leave behind the impersonal exterior envelope of an airplane and instead have the power of flight jacked straight into you is a tough one to pass up. To stretch out your arms — I mean wings, flutter them briefly, leap to the sky and head upwards. The image of it almost leads to a state of bliss.

There’s the freedom that being a bird entails, and not just of the air. Oh sure, birds have their own particular kind of avian responsibilities to assure the continuation of their life and kind, but honestly, how much time can such duties take up in a day, or at the very least average out to over a year? In comparison to our lives, it must be a small amount indeed.

I’m aware of the inherent dangers to oneself when sporting wings and challenging the near heavens. And other animals, other birds lie in wait, stalking for that favorable feeding break. Life is not a waddle down the boulevard for a bird, but the same goes for a regular human being as well. All forms of natural existence have its chances for snuffing it randomly and violently, so I’m not interested in examining the bullet points on ways birds can expire. Their lives are short when matched against our own, true. But the gains one seeks as a wish maker rarely come without a huge trade-off.

Instead of all that, think of the boost to ones self-esteem when sitting perched on high, glancing down upon all those leg draggers and belly crawlers. The landlubbers can’t feel the faster air coursing through their feathers one gets at a higher atmosphere, or gain altitude with the ease of a jump and a flirting wing beat, or think “I’d rather be over in that bit of tree,” and moments later, without reflecting on it, find themselves already there!

Even the children one has as a bird must be a hoot (no pun intended). I’m fairly good with my hands now, so I imagine the nests I’d build for my bird family would be impressive. Of course, all that squawking the chicks do is most certainly a stress factor, but you can get used to such things. And what is it, just a few months before they leave home? Now there’s a flair for personal independence!

But even while they’re too young to fly the nest for good, I’d love the simple demand that goes with foraging about with the missis for food to feed the little ones, eating worms and bugs I find on the ground or the bark of trees, then regurgitating it from my gullet and spitting it up into the kids’ –

On second thought, I don’t want to be a bird. What I’d rather be is a puma.