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From The Conversations Of Birds On A Wire
by R.D. Ronstad

See that guy getting out of the pickup truck over there? He is a lineman for the county. You can tell by the rhinestones.

Then he says, “I meant to do that.“ Ha! What a manbrain!

Human offspring play this game with balloons they fill with water, but I can’t see how that doesn’t take all the fun out of it.

You really expect me to believe that what you have there is a forty-year-old chunk of Tippi Hedren’s left earlobe?

I think he's flown into one too many windows. Yesterday I saw him talking to a pair of tennis shoes.

I always end up back in Capistrano, even though I swear every time I leave I‘ll never come back. But I always do come back, though I don’t know why. It‘s like I‘m caught up in forces beyond my control. Maybe I’m trapped in some kind of cycle, like Bill Murray’s character in that movie we watched through the old woman’s open window down in Goya. Maybe there’s some lesson I have to learn before I can break free of Capistrano. But … bird! … I can’t for the life of me think of what it might be.

I don’t condone violence of any sort, mind you, but that mockingbird had it coming.

Sometimes I feel sorry for Sylvester. Am I a bad bird?

I just flew in from Chicago yesterday; I got pluck-searched going through security.

Curse you, early bird!

She could have told me she just wasn't interested. I could accept that. But no, she comes up with this lame excuse about having to migrate.