MAY 7, ‘25 // after the buses have gone, and their deliberations linger on until the remaining toddlers yank at their skirts and whine. On the porch above my head, I hear incessant chirping and step out to investigate. From the vantage point of my balcony, I observe birds of all shapes and sizes shlepping twigs and strings in their beaks, fluttering from rooftop to tree to telephone pole, each one chirping a different tune. In high pitched ‘birdish’, they discuss the construction of their houses, the bargains of discarded rubbish they found while scrounging around the neighbourhood lanes, and their plans for nesting and raising a new generation of baby birds. Uh oh! It stops being cute when I see sparrows resolutely stuffing a spot under my awning with peculiar building material. Today, birds, like humans, are very hightech. Gleaming between the straws and twigs, neatly woven into a nest is a reel cassette tape someone must have discarded when Pesach cleaning. I wonder if Avrohom Fried (or whoever’s voice was captured on these tapes) ever dreamed that his music would serve such a select segment of the construction industry. “Shoo! Shoo!” I try to scatter the birds which are in the process of building their homes and are making a mess of my porch. They hop up and down the awning framework, analyze me with a sideward glance, then defiantly dare me to interfere. I apologize timidly for intruding into their territory and withdraw. Scanning the alley, I am amazed to discover that a whole new neighbourhood has sprung forth overnight. There is a yellow beak poking from a dryer vent, and a squirrel is being reprimanded by two angry crows who make it clear that woe betide any creature who disturbs their nest in the luscious maple tree. A peck on the nose prods the squirrel to relinquish its claim to the tree, and proceeds to find another place which I later discover to be in my window frame with my air conditioner as the main supporting beam. The new flighty tenants who have settled rent free on the awning of my balcony have painted their new abode with a yucky mixture of their own concoction - sort of a white and grey graffiti running down my red brick wall and dotting the cement floor. The message is so clear that even the illiterate can read it. It says “NO TRESPASSING. THIS RESIDENCE IS FOR BIRDS ONLY.” Before I can even plan my next strategy, a special system of waste removal announces itself before my eyes. A black armored cleaning crew of creeping black beetles come to feed on the bird’s residue. I discover that there is a pecking order to nature and I dread to think of the next rung of creatures which will take care of the bugs. In the meantime, I stay inside. “We don’t need much,” they say when I wake up in the morning and find nine giant ants sharing a millimetre of spilt grape juice that my sponge and toxic artillery missed during cleanup. I make a mental note to invest in cedar blocks and mothballs when I open my wardrobe and bump into a moth. If the grey Labrador doggy on the porch across the street would stop barking to a passing Golden retriever with a wagging tail which is presently signing in at the fire hydrant by the gutter, I might have heard the moth burp and say. “Upon my word! Your husband’s English wool suit is absolutely delicious. I have no appetite for desert now, Thanks, see you later for your cotton knit shirt!” Then again, after being stabbed by a bee while baking a cake, I am 166
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