Birdy

then flies against the wires of the cage with his mouth open in the canary equivalent of a roar. Birdie almost falls off the perch.
    Anyway, I decide that’s the one I want. Birdie’ll have to learn tolove him. He’s dark and has a flat head like a hawk, a long body with only a slight difference between the grass green of his breast and the moss green of his back feathers. There’s not a white feather or even a yellow one to be seen anywhere on him. His legs are long and black and his feathered thighs show under his tight, slim belly. He’s really a fearful-looking bird. His eyes seem to pin you down; bright black and close together for a bird. It’s hard to believe he’s only a seed-eating canary.
    When I tell Mr Lincoln that’s the one I want he tries to talk me out of it. He says it’s hard to breed this bunch because they beat the females up something awful and sometimes even turn on the babies when they come out of the nest. He says they’re nothing but trouble. The females are good mothers, but the males can break your heart.
    It doesn’t do any good talking to me. I’m crazy in love with the way he flies. He flies as if the air isn’t even there. When he flies up from the bottom of the cage, he’s two feet in the air before he opens his wings. When he drops from the top perch, he closes his wings and only opens them once just before he hits the bottom of the cage. I have the feeling you could pull all the feathers out of his wings and he could still fly. He flies because he isn’t afraid and not just because it’s what birds are supposed to do. He flies as an act of personal creation, defiance.
    Mr Lincoln sells him to me for five dollars. He’s worth fifteen at least. Mr Lincoln says he wants me to try him and come back to tell what happens. If it doesn’t work, I can bring him back and he’ll give me another bird. Mr Lincoln’s a terrific person. I wish there were more people like him.
    When I get home, I put Alfonso in the cage where I used to keep Birdie before I built the aviary. Then I hang that cage in the aviary where Birdie lives. I’m afraid to put them together right away. Mr Lincoln said he might kill her and I have to be careful.
    Just catching him was really something. He’d flown like a mad thing and when Mr Lincoln finally cornered him, he shrieked out and twisted his head trying to bite the hand that was holding him. He was completely helpless, held down, but when I put my fingerout to pet him, he twisted his head and gave me a hard peck. Birdie was sitting on my shoulder watching all this. I wondered what she was thinking. She did give me some serious questioning queeEEP’ s when I put her in her traveling box. I put Alfonso in a cardboard box to carry him home; I was half afraid he’d chew his way out.
    Well, it’s fun to watch. Of course, Birdie is all excited. She flies to his cage and tries hanging onto the side looking in. He gives her a couple sharp pecks at her feet and breast as she hangs there. One time he snatches a few feathers out of her breast.
    He seems happy enough in his new cage; eats, drinks and generally makes himself at home the first day he arrives. It’s as if all he wants is to be left alone. I’m waiting to hear him sing. I’d never heard him sing at Mr Lincoln’s. Mr Lincoln’d blown away his vent feathers to show me his little dong, as if there were any question about his being a male, but I don’t know if he can sing. Mr Lincoln said he didn’t remember ever hearing him but he didn’t listen for it. He couldn’t care less if a canary sang. I don’t think I care that much either, but I’m anxious to get him in the big cage so I can watch him fly.

That afternoon, I go visit with Birdy again. I’m beginning to think there’s not much use. The trouble is I’m not sure I really want Birdy to come back. It’s such a rat-shit world and the more I see, the worse it looks. Birdy probably knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t have to worry about anything, somebody’s always going to take care of him, feed him. He can live his whole life out pretending he’s a lousy canary. What’s so terrible about that?
    Christ, I’m wishing I could get onto something loony myself. Maybe I’ll play gorilla like that guy across the hall; just shit in my hands every once in a while and throw it at somebody. They’d lock me up and I’d be taken care of the way I was in the hospital at Metz. I could do it. Maybe that means I’m crazy. I just know