The Bird King.

Birds. 

I loved birds. I still love birds. I would stand, with my uncle, at the base of a mountain, staring at the trees, and the thickets, and slabs of rock. There! And I would swing my body around, the binoculars flying from my chest, and I would miss it again. The Steller's Jay did not like me. But as I grew, we became great friends, he moved more slowly and he waited for my eyes. Then he would puff out his chest, blue, and hop, hop, hop, right to the tip of the branch. 

Now, of course, I know it was not the birds that were slowing, it was me.

 The older I became the more I wanted to be a bird. Fly away from the people, only sing in the morning, find a place in the branches, no worries as a bird. No worries at all. What a stupid idea they said, who would want to be a bird? Do you want to eat worms from the ground? Eaten by a coyote? Shot by man? Run over by a car? I will always say yes. The bird may die early, perhaps more risk, but the bird lives a much more fulfilling life than the human. 

In Yosemite, you may find the White-crowned Sparrow. They are secretive, feeding on insects in the warmer months and moving quickly to avoid the audience. What pretty feathers, royalty to the camper, praise be the little sparrow. I never fed the birds, sometimes the squirrels, but never the birds. To me the sparrow was strong. It never begged for anything, and yet remained healthy, despite its hollow bones. The squirrel was a sickly rodent, he starved though he needn't, and so I would feed him bread, because he was so lazy. The sparrow did not need me, I needed the sparrow, the sparrow was my king, and I should never act as if the king was a beggar. 

Maybe it is simpleminded, to talk about the birds this way. They are feathers and bone and beak, and I am skin and mind and teeth, and yet I cannot fly.