photo by Patricia
Though summer is very slow to arrive, this spring day is crisp, sunny and just right. Peace descends into my core with the deep silence except for bird melodies. My meadow walk begins. Something made me turn around. A jet bomb blasted towards my face. Screaming, hands up, the killer bird backed off… but not much.
Past thinking was that mockingbirds were our guard birds, but they are guarding their own, not us. And this one has a nest very near our house. Too near.
Continuing to walk, but turning back to check, the torpedo zoomed in again right towards my eyeballs. True adrenaline hit my veins. My anger made me stomp towards him swinging my jacket like a wild woman.
As he sat stoically atop the snowball bush I hissed, “You want to fight? Let’s fight!” Bad move.
He stood his ground becoming more aggressive. My body shook with the rush of chemicals while backing down the path afraid of this little bird which had become a beast. It uncannily knew when my back was turned waiting for that opportunity to attack.
Keeping guard on the way to the house, he watched from the roof barreling down once more while entering through the back door. Filling both water bottles my artillery was loaded. With weapons of mass destruction the march goes on.
Each lap we faced each other, round and round. After splashing him once he kept his distance with a tidbit of respect. When my defenses dropped, the torpedo swept in. Nearing lap ten my hands became numb from holding up my armor.
My little patio, now a war zone, needs protecting. Getting out the hose, my gun lay across lap locked and loaded. Come on mother fucker. It came, I hosed.
Flapping its wings atop the garden arch, he screeched out to his rebel cohort next to him, “She’s got water!” Both stared me down while I held steady. Apparently water effectively hampers good aeronautics.
Daring to fill up flower pots with my head slightly turned, a swoop to the jugular. Too late my rapid fire hose missed this birdbrain who was outsmarting me.
Samuel sticks his head out the door, “Training?” he asks.
“Yes, but they called in relatives to help,” I reply.
In 15 years living here, fighting a bird is a first. The war goes on…