The robin. In this case, the American Robin (turdus migratorius -pfffft!), a member of the Thrush family (pfffft!); not to be confused with the European Robin (erithacus rubecula), an Old World Flycatcher that the American Robin could probably eat for lunch. They have a couple of things in common besides their bright tits: they sing superbly, and spotting one of them is incontrovertible evidence that it's springtime. Incontrovertible, damn it.
I saw a European Robin when I was staying with my winterphobic grandparents in Yorkshire, and it made their day. Good, but not too helpful to my not-living-in-Yorkshire ass. But yesterday as I was walking to analysis, I finally saw an American Robin. I looked at it. It looked at me. My Shuffle called up, "She takes my money . . . when I'm in need . . . yeah she's a trifling . . . Friend indeed . . . ah she's a gold digger . . . way over time . . . that digs on me."
The drum machine kicked in. AND I SWEAR THE FUCKING TURDUS MIGRATORIUS GOT DOWN. Bobbing its head, stepping from side to side, pecking at something. With perfect fucking rhythm. Either I'm losing my mind, or I have some bizarre sort of Beastmaster quality, or Kanye West and Jamie Foxx do.
Whichever way, happy spring, everybody!
4 commenti:
i love when birds do that.
birds got the funk yo.
Birds rock. You know, I really wish we had wild toucans in Canada. That would be awesome.
If I was saddled with the handle Turdus Migratorius, I'd want a killer voice too...
Toucans rule. I want them to invade London and drive the pigeons away. More owls too. I love owls. Mainly because one used to sit in the tree outside the window of my old flat and make the most awesomely stupid noise I've ever heard a bird make.
That's a funny thing about owls. Classical European symbol of wisdom, yet they sound like a hesitant and retarded drunk.
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