I am watching birds eat from the grass. There a maybe a dozen of them; some fly in while others leave. Now and then they fight, screeching and flapping their wings quickly. These birds’ feathers are dark brown and black. Their beaks are bright yellow, the color of plastic toys. They hop and sprint and only move with quick, jerking motions, like something under a strobe light. I watch them dig in the grass and dirt, but I cannot see what they are eating. Something else which I cannot see or hear makes them fly away. For a minute or two, I hope that they will come back. And they do, first two, then three more, then one stops in a tree.
Behind and above me, geese cry as they pass. A lone duck stands on a wet stretch of pavement, opening and closing its beak. But I am inside and do not hear its sounds.
