Birdy

hovering in the air all the time. The only real point of contact is where he fits in.
    When he’s finished, he lands beside her, squats and starts giving the ‘feed-me’ signal himself. They twirl beside each other for half a minute alternately feeding and being fed. Then he does it again. This time he doesn’t sing and there’s only the pleased whimpering ofBirdie and the sounds of his wings as he pumps the air to hold himself over her. Her wings beat in a counterpoint to his and there’s a great trembling of air. It’s something to think how much a bird can flap its wings without moving an inch and how, when he wants to fly, the quickest, simplest flick of wings transports him straight up, twenty, thirty times his length. Flying is much more than flapping wings.
    Now Birdie goes berserk. She flies around the cage, peeping little peeps and flapping her wings as if she can’t stand still. She seems too excited even to eat properly. She goes down, eats one seed, then looking as if she’s forgotten something, flies madly all over again. She ducks into the old cage about every five minutes, inspecting and making sure. Then she starts tearing paper up from the bottom of the cage and carrying pieces of it around. She begins storing these pieces of paper in the corners of the aviary and in her cage. Every half hour or so, Alfonso recovers enough to chase after Birdie, feed her and they do it again. It’s a hectic Sunday afternoon.
    The next day, Monday, I buy a wire strainer without a handle, about four inches in diameter at the top. I wire this into the small cage. All the books say this makes the best kind of nest because it doesn’t harbor lice. Then I scissor off the top of a burlap bag, cut it into squares about two inches each way and shred it into two-inch length strings. I put bunches of this stuff in different corners of the aviary. Birdie attacks this new challenge with vigor. She starts by scattering it all over the aviary, then she picks up a piece and flies back and forth till she forgets she has it in her beak and drops it. She seems to think it’s some kind of new game. She’s interested but has no idea what practical use she can make of it.
    Two days pass and I begin to get worried. Usually, the egg will be laid within four days of fertilization. I’d read about birds who lay their eggs on the floor; all kinds of crazy things. Birds, like people, have been living in cages so long they’ve forgotten many things they should do naturally.
    On the third day Alfonso takes over. For the first time he picks up a piece of burlap. He flies straight to the nest and drops it in. Birdie watches with obvious incomprehension. Then Alfonso jumpsinto the strainer-nest and wiggles himself around as if he’s taking a bath. He jumps out. Birdie’s followed him into the cage. She has a piece of burlap in her beak. Alfonso jumps into the nest and demonstrates again. Birdie jumps into the nest holding the string in her beak. She jumps out again. Alfonso pulls the string out of her beak and drops it into the nest. Birdie looks at him as if he’s some kind of nut and flies out of the small cage to play with the strings again. Alfonso gets into the nest and waits for her. Birdie comes back with two pieces in her beak. Alfonso gets out of the nest and Birdie jumps in. Alfonso jumps on top of Birdie and starts singing, pumping and pecking her on the neck. Birdie varies between whimpering and trying to escape. Alfonso gets off, squats and feeds Birdie in the nest. Then he sings to her. Birdie tries to get up on the edge of the nest but Alfonso forces her back and does the whole singing, pumping, pecking routine again. He flies down to get more burlap.
    Birdie finally gets the idea. She jumps up on the edge of the nest, then back in again. She snuggles down in it. She jumps out again, then back in. By this time, Alfonso’s arrived. She takes the burlap from his beak and drops the pieces into the nest. She jumps in on top of them and wiggles around. I hope that at last we’re on our way.

That night, after chow, I meet the CO who’s the orderly on Birdy’s floor. We get to talking. He tells me his name is Phil Renaldi; he’s Italian but not Sicilian. His grandparents came from around Napoli. He invites me over to eat some fruitcake he just got from home. I’m still not sure if he’s queer or not but I go. What should I care if he’s queer; I’m not all that sure about myself. Maybe I’ll get a chance to ask