You Can Talk to Birds?...

I love birds.
It seriously brings me immense inner joy to see them splash in a puddle or flap around the Walmart parking lot, searching for the smallest crumb.

And I'm sure you've all heard the infamous chicken stories revolving around the dramatics that ensued after a freak accident where a beloved pet rooster was mistaken for a noisy nuisance and turned into Sunday dinner.

Thus, I was scarred for life.

But the point is:
I save moldy bread for the ducks at BYU's botany pond.
Then I name them and shed a glistening tear when they get ploughed down on the crosswalk periodically.

Heck. I chose the Tracy Aviary as my birthday day trip destination this year.

The only problem is...

Birds hate me.
Or at least put on a good act.

When I was little, I shared a room with 'da twinneh' and every Saturday morning we'd throw open our window to feel the cool spring breeze and listen to the tweetings of the little sparrows that perched on a tree outside our window.

The little trill they sang sounded like they were saying "______ is a pretty-little-bird."

So 'da twinneh' would say, "Alese, is a pretty-little-bird." and (withOUT fail), they'd mimic her every time.

So I, encouraged by the joyful way in which they twirped to my sister, would happily scoot closer to the window to try it for myself.

"Corin is a pretty-little-bird.", I'd happily sing.

...

Nothing.

...

Perfect silence.

Then, they'd fall from the trees.
Dead.

Okay, so not really.
But it's kinda like Gem's thing with ladybugs.
She sees one and is all, "Oh! My new best friend!"

Then the little guy takes one look at her and flies directly into the nearest light and fries itself crispy.

Hehehe. :D That was a cheap shot.
But I just couldn't help myself.
(For a more accurate portrayal, please speak with Gem. Although I still hold that my version is entirely more entertaining.)