Birdie, birdie in the sky

Every time there is a bird in a direct vertical relationship to me this poem comes to mind.

Birdie, birdie in the sky.
Dropped some white stuff in my eye.
I don't cuss. I don't cry.
I'm just glad that cows don't fly.

The other day as I left the office to meet some previous co-workers for lunch I heard a flock of birds chirping. A little unusual for this time of year I thought. I looked up and ahead aways and there was what looked like a scene from "Birds" right above the sidewalk that I was headed down.

I wondered about the wisdom of walking under all those birds but thought, "they're just resting. It's when they take off that things begin to fly." As long as I didn't rouse them, I should be fine.

As I passed underneath, I felt something hit the top of my head. It wasn't an acorn. Something more in the form of liquid I thought. I didn't put my hand up there to rub it through the wet spot. What if it was bird poop? I trusted though that perhaps it was melting snow or something from the tree. It didn't feel thick enough to be bird poop.

Could you imagine though going to lunch with old friends with bird poop on your head? The waitress glancing occasionally at the top of your head. Then back to the office with your fellow workers.

That night as I brushed my teeth Barb asked, "what's that white stuff in your hair?"