Crumbs

Yesterday I walked to work instead of taking the bus. In Edinburgh, we’ve had a few Scottish sunny mornings in a row, bright but cold.  

Mary Oliver was in my mind. I had read some of her poetry before leaving home. Oliver, the poet of attention, of nature, of birds and fish and flowers and trees. The most lasting impact of literature is never intellectual, but to put us in touch with our gut and heart. Had I not been reading her, I’d not have spotted the bird. 

It was black and white. With my inexistent knowledge of animals beyond cats and dogs, I couldn’t identify what it was, but at first, I thought it was hurt. It seemed it couldn’t fly but leapt repeatedly and briefly. Then, it landed again, picked some microscopic food from the pavement and repeated the action. Are birds it, he or she? I wondered. 

Not long ago I heard someone say, ‘context means content’, an axiom I now apply to everything. The bird was at the entrance of a Greggs at eight-thirty in the morning. It could fly, but it didn’t want to. Or it couldn’t fly because it didn’t want to. It didn’t need to. I doubt birds have the possibility of choosing between brain and gut. The bird was collecting crumbs from the humans picking their breakfast and lunch, having the feast of his life.