birds

In the mornings I can watch the sun climb up banana trees. The clouds that cushion this event often declare some massive poignancy. But this morning, a wall of grey veiled the sun that was speckled with furrowed splotches reminiscent of scar tissue or stretch marks. Only in pen-hole gaps could the source of dawn be seen.

The birds here dash from all directions. These black birds have an oil-glazed coat that reflect a gleam of colors. Their bullet-hole eyes forever survey the green flowing landscape in search of excuses for flight. Sometimes their trajectory is nigh unplanned, they’ll dive right toward a wall, and they’ll have to maneuver away. They’re erratic like the grasshoppers they catch. And when they jump to soar their noisy wings flap like shaken rubber boots.

Sometimes I’ve moved and unbeknown disturbed a stalking crane. For such a large and noble bird, they land without much fear. I’ve seen rooftop edges in the horizon painted white with their droppings.

Some birds make unfortunate sounds, and a cluster can be cacophony. There’s ones that have a smoker’s cough. The laughing hawk is always amused at some private delight. The high-pitched weaver birds scream competing “chalps.”

For a country where English is predominant, there’s a communication barrier when conversing with the people. Here in this Ugandan culture, a word to label white people is Mzungu. But mzungu doesn’t mean white; it means wealthy. I treasure the moments of true relations that I can share with some of the people here. I do not enjoy it when people make an abrupt divulgence to the want for cash to pay for this or that. I feel as if some friendships are predicated on financial reciprocation.

The soil of this nation is more fertile that the best American loam. The weather is great. Democracy has been here for 25 years. I fear that my pity is now part of this country’s GDP. I’ve shed a layer of idealism, but my faith in God is stronger. He led me here.