The still warm air lifts me high above the sparkling white sand. People on white objects bob on the surface of the water. No clouds to dart through up here so I drop low, skimming the tips of my wings along the ocean’s slick surface. Up ahead I see a lump of water approaching me from the side. It’s growing and I anticipate its speed, changing my direction only slightly, so I can travel along with the wave on its path to the sand. It begins to break and I use all the wind rushing up the wave’s face to rocket myself higher into the air. I do this about eleven more times then decide to cruise on the ground for a while, so I fly over to the sand. I actually land on a rusty nail (again) and it cuts my little webbed foot. Then I see a piece of plastic, you know, the kind that hold six packs of cheap beer together. I’ve learned my lesson not to get near that stuff. My friend, Jasmine, got her wing stuck in some of that plastic a few weeks back. She died.
I’m getting a bit hungry, so I fly down to the pier, where the old couple sit everyday. Jack and Shirley are their names. They always bring some tasty treats for me. Well, not necessarily for me, but I’m usually the first one there, so I tend to think they’re for me. They’re not at the bench yet, so I sit on one of the soggy wood posts. Another couple walks by holding hands, they’re in love. I try telling the man his shoelace is untied, but he looks at me annoyed—tells me to shut-up while pretending to throw something at me. I’m naturally a cautious bird, so of course I take-off flying screaming for help.
You know how biologists say that birds have no control of when or where they shit? Well, they’re wrong. I’ve got impeccable aim, as the man quickly finds out. I fly over him and the girl, calculate my speed, and watch my little bomb splat on his shoulder. I let out a high-pitched cackle and hear a few friends down on the pier laughing also.
The lunch bell rings over at the school and I flock with the rest of my friends to go and scavenge the playground for any left over food the kids may have left. They’re wasteful little things you know—and you’d be surprised at all the little goodies you can find. But you gotta be fast and competitive to score food at the school yard. I’ve seen a lot of fights go down over some fruit-by-the-foot and cheez-its.
It’s been a pretty full day and I’m getting tired. I fly around the beach and circle a few grassy patches near the sand looking for a soft green area to relax. I swoop down fast and as I approach the ground and I tilt my wings slightly as I slowly drop like a leaf. I love taking naps in grassy patches—I’m not sure why—maybe because my mom used to take me and my brother and sister to the beach when we were young, and when we got tired after a long day of playing above the waves, she’d take us to a grassy patch for a nap.
I wonder about Jack and Shirley and why they weren’t on the pier today. I hope they’re OK.I’d hate to fly there tomorrow and find out they’re not there again. I really love those treats they bring me. And with that thought I drift off—the black night on my grey feathers.
