Anthropomorphic Savant

There is a mercenary of birds milling about, flapping and tweeting in the tree outside my bedroom window. I like birds. Whether or not they like me is another point, one only an ornithologist or anthropomorphic savant could possible address. Our dog couldn’t speak, preferring to bark and yowl. My father traded it to a farmer for a shotgun and car fender, the left-hand side one if I remember correctly, which I seldom do; remember anything at all for that matter, so I guess being correct is moot. I put on my trousers this morning one leg at a time, just as I was taught. There was a time, not long ago, when this was not the case and I would try both at the same time, which caused me to hop and carom to one side or the other, which side is unimportant, suffice it to say I hopped and caromed and made a general nuisance of myself. A bird, a wren or a red--breasted pheasant just alit on my windowsill, its tiny clawed feet clutching the sill. My window is open, or a jar, so I can hear its warble and twitter with unhindered alacrity. I like birds, but I already told you that, so the point is moot, repetitive at best. It’s going to rain; I can smell it with unhindered alacrity.