Today, in the English Canadian vernacular, is a "Beaut" in blessed Victoria. Though "the Pacific drizzle" plagued our daylight saving morning, the afternoon has proven a peach. For you'se not residing in Paradise, or perhaps unknowing of its existence here on God's Green, let me tell you: This place of still extant wildness, married close with the more familiar clutter of human activity, is as near perfection as any would hope. And, my little cell is perfectly placed to witness it all.

I know, some will not believe, but I bear witness to songbirds, and birds of prey, and enjoin crows, seagulls, and starlings speak with me as they perform their daily necessity, necessities too gruesome perhaps to go into here. Along the parking lot the other day, the "Indian" and me crossed paths, while I watched a pair of cormorants cruise above us both; the "Indian" said;

"Cormorants."

Just like an "Indian" to say the obvious.

I replied;

"Yeah, they fly pretty."

Just like a "White Guy."

Soon, the swallows will come back. They live on the roof of the apartment, in the elevator venting. There will  be fewer this year, as last, because they are being rubbed out. There are theories about this: Pollution; migration complications; pesticides, and automobile mishaps, (I killed one myself, whilst traversing the prairie some years back at 80 mph).

Birds shit.

I'll own, I've cursed the bastard's spoor, when found on my vehicle, but I know it's not personal. Contrary to popular myth: The birds aren't out to get us. Though, I think they possess a healthy sense of humour, the birds are not, necessarily, targeting us. If they were, though, what question would that provoke?

We humans; "Indians," "White Guys," and the rest, tend to discount our "cousins." It seems Au Courrant to imagine "We" be the sole possessors of consciousness. Yet, do we not all  react defensively when confronted with "Nature's" little reminders? Who amongst us have not shaken a fist at some feathered felon on finding a white stain on our vehicle, or perhaps, our head?

A natural, but dim-sighted reaction.

But, given spare moments, a blob of bird turd holds within it great instruction. Not long after a gull's splat!, witness please the congregation of insects, and blown on the breeze spores married to this fertility. Within a moment, or two, an ecosphere erupts around this mindless deposit.

To See the World in a fleck of Turd

I expect some may find an ode to a turd a little off the mark, but consider, please, the myriad little acts of nature that make the broader world work. Though few would curse their neighbour the necessity of the daily dump, when it comes from the sky, without warning, it seems damnable. Perhaps as damnable as other falling objects, most more damaging than any delivered through the agency of the infamous, "shit-hawk."