Birds Can Read, Too                                                   Reflection 199 words
Howard R Music
Denton TX

I walked in an old field, a pasture, perhaps once part of a farm plowed and grazed
since the Civil War. It was mid-August. The grass brown and brittle. The only
greenery were short, spiny plants, mesquite trees and a stand of sunflowers.
The wind rattled dried out plants, stirring dust and thick, musty pollen from tough weeds
with course flowers.

Dove and flocks of Gackels were on the ground feeding on dropped seeds,
grasshoppers and locusts that clung to the stalks like berries.

Across the road was a huge, iron-fenced city park near a nondescript housing
development and school. Hybrid-grass was manicured to the flatness of a golf green,
guarded by trees planted in military precision with trimmed branches devoid of nests.
The air smelled of herbicide and treated water from a buried irrigation line.
To the eye it was pristine. Silent, without cicadas or other insects, or birds to hunt them
for their young.

It was early. There was a lock and a sign that read:


Perhaps the birds could read, too.

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