Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

There’s a tiny enclave of houses just west of Ellis Avenue, where a few lucky homeowners get to wake every morning downtown to their own little piece of a postcard-perfect pond: the last of the winter ice edged with water, a pair of swans white against a background of faded reeds, and a middle-aged man in a bright yellow jacket beating them off with a stick, protecting the smaller swan he’s found them attacking, the poor thing sodden with filth, desperately trying to mount the low concrete bank that protects this paradise, its wings too wet to catch the wind.

I hadn’t known much about swans when I’d set out on my walk and certainly hadn’t anticipated spending a couple of hours that afternoon keeping one company at the fag end of that fetid pond while we waited together for Animal Services to arrive. Until then I would have never hit a bird nor wished one harm, but I ended my vigil hating the relentless pair that had tormented my new friend, feeling for the immature outsider who hadn’t known better than to wander into their territory, at first unable and finally unwilling to leave him alone to be found.

Photo by Paul Friel. Some rights reserved.