I saw the sweetest thing on Sunday while taking a stroll. It was early, the streets empty and quiet, when I walked by a movie theater.
In front were a flock of birds feasting on a silo of spilled popcorn.
I stopped to watch, happy for them, knowing how they spend their whole lives foraging for food.
I look up, and see a young Mexican kid in the theater’s lobby, peering out the window with a big smile on his face.
He couldn’t have been more than 18, short, chubby, with a baseball cap that said, Mama Mia on it, oblivious to me watching.
Clearly he was the one responsible for this great feast that was going on.
I had visions of him remembering home when maybe he fed chickens in the morning. I know I have memories, like walking along Fairfield Beach picking up shells, toes happy in the sand, my early life, more simple than grand.
I was waiting for some irate New Yorker to go by in disgust ranting how feeding the birds attract rats. That could be true if robins and sparrows didn’t clean their plates so thoroughly.
Like my grandfather always said, they have to eat too.