Skip Navigation LinksHOME → BAMBOO SHOOTS LISTING → ORNITHOLOGICAL RHAPSODY SANS DOVE OR RATS WITH WINGS

BAMBOO SHOOTS
Works of fiction and poetry by friends of Bamboo Ridge Press.

THIS IS A YEAR OF THE PIG CONTEST ENTRY

Ornithological Rhapsody sans Dove or Rats with Wings

Published by JIM HARSTAD | Sunday, April 14, 2019 12:05 PM



Chapter One

Rudy knows people, and,
because he knows people,
Rudy loves birds.

It is not enough to say that he likes, admires, envies, and adores all
birds — he LOVES them,
wants to marry them,
wants to BE them.

Most especially, he wants to join the lyrical thrush family,
the robins he admired back then,
the shamas he favors now.

But he loves them all —
woodpeckers, barnswallows, eagles, parakeets, budgies, Hartz Mountain
warblers — kid-time favorite comic book: “Blackhawks”.

These days he goes for the high-flying morning flocks of screeching
green parrots and the solitary, tree-skimming, side-gliding white owl
after dark.

Kentucky cardinals, koleas, cowbirds, chubby flocking majiros, silly
geese, and potty-mouthed Donald Duck. Rudy loves all birds.

But Rudy hates doves.

Rudy hates doves for the reasons we all hate those nasty, sneaky,
louse-ridden, sidewalk grifting, shoplifting shitdrippers.

Well, OK, maybe not the official Peace Dove with the olive branch. Of
course not. And not Dove soap, ha ha. But none of this pigeons in the
grass, alas, guano. Huh-uh. Pigeons in the grass can bite Rudy’s
okole.

So he’s standing there like Mr. Clean, arms crossed, proprietarily
admiring his ironwood tree, when he thinks he detects movement at the
bottom of his stairway.

Coo-coo kachoo, there IS movement: fucking doves. Two fucking doves.
Two doves fucking in that awkward, jerky, grabass way doves fuck,
right in his own front yard.

And now he really hates doves. He’s furious. Fucking doves. He’d like
to wring their twisty little necks. Sucking doves!

Rudy catches his breath. “Olive branch,” he thinks. “Peace out, bra.”
He grins, claps his hands hard, makes them sting like rifle shots,
like shotgun blasts. Feathers fluster, flutter, and fly. But not far.
Definitely not away. Like recalcitrants, like people. Like doves.


Chapter Two, A Dove’s Reply

“Coo-coo kachoo” is it? Who does this tired old bozo think he is, the
long-lost fifth Beatle? McCartney’s half-brother Raul? Coo-coo indeed.
Like the world really needs his bullshit opinions on birds, bees,
Bezos, or ebola.

He spots my honey and me sporting away at the foot of “his” stairs.
Suddenly the sun dims and his favorite word is fuck. If he cultivates
this dove/hate relationship as nothing more than an excuse to talk
dirty, at least give us doves credit for so admirably completing our
mission.

Mission? To fucking piss him off, of course.



RECOMMEND THIS PAGE

Tell others about this page on your social networks.


COMMENTS


If you have an account, why not login to comment?