Those Birds

"Ugh, those birds," said Grandmother. She set down her book and walked to the window by the front door.

"What kind of birds are they?" I asked.

"I don't like these birds that nest on our porch, teach their little ones to do the same."

I set down my book and joined her. I looked out the window. Couldn't see the birds she was talking about. "Well... But now it's like you have pet birds, and you don't even have to feed them."

"Pet nothin'." She didn't take my positive spin, just sat down and opened back up the mystery.

I kept looking out the window, determined to see at least one little bird. I looked up toward the ceiling of the porch, the pillars, examined the ledge where I might find a nest. At all the places where, if I were a bird, I'd put my nest. I looked and looked, saw nothing. I did hear a chirp or two after a minute. And there, flapping past me, went a bird. Dar, brown, maybe even black, but not a blackbird. Small, skittish, could fit in the palm of your hand. It landed on a portion of the ledge I'd looked at and disappeared from sight. And then the chirping grew.

I looked around for the book of North American birds. I wanted to know what this guy was, who these intruders are. What Grandmother was so riled up about. But then I heard a side door open and close. I looked out the front window again. There was Grandfather, looking up at the birds, book in hand, big smile on his face. Darned if that didn't put a big old smile on mine.