A Bird in the Hand

 

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

The worst thing about mornings was the fact they were so darn early, and she was so not a morning person. The good thing about not being a morning person is it was easy to trick herself into getting up and doing things, as long as she set the alarm early enough, the grumpy part of her wouldn’t be awake yet to protest.

The sun was just rising at her back as her feet pounded the gravel to the rhythm of her breath. She didn’t like to admit it, but she loved these morning runs. It was how she meditated on the day to come.

There weren’t many of the regulars out on the trail this morning, probably because of the rain that passed through the night before, but it was kind of nice to have the path all to herself. Just her thoughts swirling in the lapping waters of the Bay Shore as she was serenaded with the morning calls of the birds. Actually, there seemed to be quite a lot of birds. As she rounded the bend in the path, she discovered why. Ahead of her was a man, walking down the trail with a swarm of birds fluttering about him. She contemplated the strange scene, all of those birds, swooping down on the man, and then she saw why. He removed his hand from his pocket, and stretched it out in front of himself, a half dozen birds swooped down and accepted the seed from the palm of his hand. She smiled at the scene as she jogged by.

She saw the man a few times that winter, always the morning after the rain, always on a lonely stretch of trail, but as spring set in and the sun started rising earlier, the trail became more crowded, and soon she forgot about the bird man. That was until late summer. She had been working on her endurance, running a bit further down the trail each morning,  until one morning she turned a corner and found a bench overlooking the bay, and sat down to take a rest.  After a few minutes, she stood to leave just as a woman approached her and asked if she could sit.

“Of course,” I said, “I was actually just leaving.”

But as a rose she noticed a plaque on the bench “For Jim, the bird man of San Leandro.”

“Oh no,” she sucked in her breath.

“Dearie, did you know my husband?” The older lady said, noticing the expression on her face as she looked at the plaque.

“No, not really, I just saw him a few times, out here feeding the birds,” she stuttered, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you dear, but it has been ten years now, still I like to come out here and sit with him.”

“Sorry, ten years? Well that couldn’t have been him then, the man I saw was out here a few months ago.”

“Tall, white hair, green jacket and a purple baseball cap?”

“Yes, that’s the man I saw.”

“How lovely, it was him! It’s been a long time since I met someone who has seen his ghost!”

“Oh,” she said, stunned, “well, I should probably go.” And she turned and jogged back down the path toward home.

The worst thing about mornings was the fact they were so darn early, and she was so not a morning person. The good thing about not being a morning person is it was easy to trick herself into getting up and doing things, as long as she set the alarm early enough, the grumpy part of her wouldn’t be awake yet to protest.

The sun was just rising at her back as her feet pounded the gravel to the rhythm of her breath. She didn’t like to admit it, but she loved these morning runs. It was how she meditated on the day to come.

There weren’t many of the regulars out on the trail this morning, probably because of the rain that passed through the night before, but it was kind of nice to have the path all to herself. Just her thoughts swirling in the lapping waters of the Bay Shore as she was serenaded with the morning calls of the birds. Actually, there seemed to be quite a lot of birds. As she rounded the bend in the path, she discovered why. Ahead of her was a man, walking down the trail with a swarm of birds fluttering about him. She contemplated the strange scene, all of those birds, swooping down on the man, and then she saw why. He removed his hand from his pocket, and stretched it out in front of himself, a half dozen birds swooped down and accepted the seed from the palm of his hand. She smiled at the scene as she jogged by.

She saw the man a few times that winter, always the morning after the rain, always on a lonely stretch of trail, but as spring set in and the sun started rising earlier, the trail became more crowded, and soon she forgot about the bird man. That was until late summer. She had been working on her endurance, running a bit further down the trail each morning,  until one morning she turned a corner and found a bench overlooking the bay, and sat down to take a rest.  After a few minutes, she stood to leave just as a woman approached her and asked if she could sit.

“Of course,” I said, “I was actually just leaving.”

But as a rose she noticed a plaque on the bench “For Jim, the bird man of San Leandro.”

“Oh no,” she sucked in her breath.

“Dearie, did you know my husband?” The older lady said, noticing the expression on her face as she looked at the plaque.

“No, not really, I just saw him a few times, out here feeding the birds,” she stuttered, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you dear, but it has been ten years now, still I like to come out here and sit with him.”

“Sorry, ten years? Well that couldn’t have been him then, the man I saw was out here a few months ago.”

“Tall, white hair, green jacket and a purple baseball cap?”

“Yes, that’s the man I saw.”

“How lovely, it was him! It’s been a long time since I met someone who has seen his ghost!”

“Oh,” she said, stunned, “well, I should probably go.” And she turned and jogged back down the path toward home.