Birds and Breakfast

This morning, I'm breakfasting with the birds. I don't know how they feel about the scrambled egg I'm having, but if they're angry or disgusted, their outward appearance is politely indifferent. Since there are no furious feathered activists shout-tweeting at me about an egg's right to life, I'm feeling pretty secure my modest meal will go uninterrupted.

Although the hum of the nearby highway is constant, it's only dull white noise compared to the layered chirping and chattering of my flighty friends.

Between bites of egg and toast, I peek through the balcony window panes, and I try to find the source of the singing that my ears can't shake, but it's like a kickass surround sound--disorienting and near-impossible to pinpoint because it comes from everywhere.

Bite of toast, bite of egg. Stare, chew, swallow. Coffee. Scan treetops. Repeat.

I don't realize where my mind has gone until I join the process in mid-thought. I'm thinking about mynah birds. In particular, I'm thinking about Mr. Spock, an old friend's pet who could mimic a starting car and a running washer/dryer.

I lose myself in coffee and passersby who are enjoying a stroll on a nearby trail, then foggy mind wanderings become clear, and I'm remembering a flock of pigeons circling above. My cousin Kevin claps his hands twice, stops for a couple of seconds, and claps twice again. The pigeons spiral slowly downward until they're all tucked into the coop at the opposite end of Kevin's dusty Ewa Beach backyard.

My eggs and toast are gone now, and I finish my last sip of coffee before it completely cools, and as I bring my dishes into the house, I wonder what would these birds blog if they had little BlackBerries and some free time...
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Sent from my monkey's typewriter.