Where the Birds Aren’t

A magpie warbles longingly on a power line. Silhouette cutting a sharp shape against a salmon watercolour sunrise sky. I sit, fumbling fingers grasping errant shoelaces. Double knot tight.

Prickles crunch underfoot. Bees loop mad insect designs around scrubby daisy weed flowers. Pleasant childhood memories dance in my frontal lobe, daisy flowers are magic.

Sparrow gangs sketch races on open grass. Crumbs left are gobbled as swooping, twittering arguements ensue. A small fledging sits, feathers askew. Yellow tunnel pleading mouth squawking a hunger story until an adult brings food. My bell jingling approach causes the flock to move en masse to the nearest treetops.

I pass a fence. Its height is forboding, a crack near the gate. A nose leathery and glistening, snuffles to greet. Husky WOOF warning. I grin. No gatekeeper better than a large hairy wolf dog.

Jasmine. Flower samples fragrant, gorgeous and perfectly shaped. Plucking one is tricksie, a jagged stem end prize. Behind my ear where the smell is heavenly, matching my mood.

On a bench,  the water sparkles in the harbour distant. A small sound announces the landing of a Waxeye. Delicate eye markings enchant my visual tastebuds. Rounded small body bounces on his sprig of a shrub. Eyes beadily examine me, head moving quicker than blinking. He begins an enchanting trill song. A car toot breaks the spell. Waxeye flits off to another branch, I am forgotten for nectar flowers.

City proper. Benches for sitting and benches for looking. I scuff the earth with my shoe. A pigeon approaches, bobbing, purposeful in his own importance. He sneaks up on my blind spot.  My scuffed spot is analysed, but no food in sight. The pigeon huffily wanders, geometric circles away. Checking left, right, left for prospective eats.

Back into my suburb. Typically Wellingtonian, old villa houses crowd together like a colourful flock of parrots. A steep hill rises protectively behind them. Colours and styles clash like bad 80′s fashion. Gardens mingle like neighbours, unkempt scramble meeting manicured rose bushes. My street. Snails trek slowly along a window ledge. Silvery stories left behind to speak of journeys had, plants to find. I walk, trailing my fingers on concrete walls.

A Starling riding a telephone pole sings of alpha male goodness. Colours of Spring, magnificently peacock. He preens, sings louder. Green spotted, purple hued black, he proclaims his might in long notes of love.

His song carries my feet and ears home. The road angles upwards. Footpath alongside rickety fences and cars parked, coupons displayed. My feet enthusiastic, my bag heavier with time.

Blue trimmed house, and an unkempt garden. I peer in front windows. Mishmashed face cats mew exhuberantly, silent behind sparkling glass. My keys rattle in the lock. The thud of four footed creatures announces my return.

Home, where the birds aren’t.

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