Hey, Bald Eagle. Whatcha doing?

“You seen a hippie in a sweater? Mexican looking? Needs a beard?”

Maybe. Why?

“Fucker plucked a feather out of my armpit.”

Birds have armpits?

“Wingpit, whatever. You know what I mean.”

Can’t help you. How’s everything going otherwise?

“Can’t complain. Ate half-a-rotted catfish an hour ago, so you know: good day. Gonna preen in a bit.”

That’s like grooming, right?

“Keep the feathers fresh and fluffy, yeah.”

Why don’t birds do it to one another, like mammals groom each other? It’s a social thing for us.

“Take a good look at me, man. Everything that’s not a wing is a weapon.”


“What should we use to groom each other? Our five-inch knife-fingers?”

I get it, I get it.

“Birds aren’t big on the community living thing.”

Yeah, you never see them flock together. Sure.

“You’re talking about weak birds, son. Real birds live by their own rules. Don’t tread on me. Oh, look: a baby seagull.”




“Nomph nomph nomph. What?”

That was a bird! Just like you!

“No. I’m an eagle. That was a seagull.”

And you ate it!

“Didn’t eat. In my crop. Gonna regurgitate the still-living body for my chicks a bit later.”

You’re a monster.

“Nope. I’m an eagle. My reality doesn’t contain ‘good’ and ‘evil;’ it contains ‘food’ and ‘not-food.'”

It was a baby.

“And now I’m going to feed it to my babies. So they can grow up big and strong and eat babies of their own. Circle of life. A lion wrote a song about it.”


“I feel like you still haven’t grasped what ‘nature’ means.”

I usually talk to dogs and housecats.

“You talked to the animals that humans genetically designed for their own uses and you think you understand nature?”

Good point.

“Rough out here, man.”