Bird and fire

On my way to get my coffee from Weaver Street at 3:30, I spied a small baby bird by the back steps of The Station, Mike Benson's establishment.  It had its mouth wide open and was peeping vigorously.  What's up with that?  I thought.  Meanwhile, up on the deck rail of the station, another larger bird was looking at me and squawking pretty aggressively, so I took that to be the mama bird, and was somewhat comforted.

When we adopted our cats Leon and Rascal, the hippie chicks at the cat shelter argued that we should keep them inside because cats eat a lot of baby birds who are left nesting on the ground while their moms go out prospecting for worms and whatnot.  Mary buys this entirely, plus she fears the cats could get snagged by hawks or by nasty snakes.  I have been somewhat dubious on this argument, feeling that felines want to be free.  This baby bird, however, argued in the other direction.

On the way back I saw that the bird was still there, but the mama wasn't peeping at me anymore.  Strange, I thought.  Then when I came around the corner of the Station, I saw that a bunch of mulch was on fire, and appeared to be moving towards the building.  There was a bird laying near the fire that could have been mom.  I went and got a waiter from inside and he doused the fire with water and I stamped on it with my flip flops, until a guy with better shoes for the job came out and dealt with it more authoritatively.  The bird didn't look good, though.

I think I'm a little sensitive today, perhaps. It was kind of a freaky scene, something David Lynchy about it.