The Birds Must Be Hungry

Yesterday I took the train, then the subway into work. Hamilton to Toronto. On these days my day start at 5 AM. By the time I make it to where I need to be at College and University I’m about four hours into my day.

At some point during my train ride in from Hamilton my brain started to daydream about the deliciousness of the sausage breakfast wrap at Tim Hortons. The chubby little kid that lives in my brain was determined to find said breakfast sandwich before I clocked into work.

Being the excellent Anishinaabe moose hunter that I am, I easily found the Tim Hortons right outside of my subway stop and ordered up a breakfast sammy with the quickness. I sat in the empty courtyard outside of the doors of the shop and smashed the first three or four bites into my face with pure joy.

As I gorged myself with breakfast, I noticed about a dozen small finches at my feet. They prayed to me the way a Cree prays to the sun in the dead heat of the summer, hoping I would drop a bite down to the ground for them. I obliged, throwing corner of the wrap to the ground. Then another. And another.

Without even noticing, and within a blink of an eye, I have what seemed to be a few hundred of this little maniacs yelling and chirping and snapping at each other over the crumbled corners of my breakfast sandwich. It was overwhelming and chaotic and I didn’t want to be accessory to a 2nd degree bird murder, so I refrained from throwing any more food. I returned to my sandwich with purpose.

I raised the sandwich to my greasy lips and as I did one of these little finch bastards flew right onto my hand. He pecked my hand though I think he was aiming for the sandwich. This, of course, scared the shit out of me being the excellent Anishinaabe moose hunter that I am. It forced me to yelp and scream a way I don’t think I ever have.

The violence of the finch peck made me drop the breakfast sandwich on the ground. The chubby kid that lives in my brain wept as I stared down at the fallen sandwich. I was overcome with triggered memories of dropping a fries and gravy at the powwow when I was a kid. How could God hate me so much that they’d allow me to spill the cardboard box filled with the scant meal I bummed off my Kookum

Fuckin’ bird, I said. Goddamn it.

The birds must be hungry, said a houseless man matter of factly, as he took his perch on the park bench next to me.

I paused. His words cleared my head.

I think so, birds have to eat too, I limped back.

Ya, look how hungry they are, he explained.

This isn’t a short story about the shame I feel when I’m quick to anger. I’m basically a six foot tall, 290lb walking and talking angry indian meme on my bad days. I’ve been angry my whole life, it’s something I’m working on.

I need to go back to the moment before the sandwich dropped.

It was joyful, the moment.

The air was clean, the sun peaked through the trees with its morning promise of a new day, the city was just coming alive. And in the moment I experienced a really deep gratitude. It wasn’t long ago I didn’t have cash for a breakfast sandwich splurge, I was taking joy in such a little thing.

Then it was ruined.

Swearing at the bird the way I did wasn’t serious, I wasn’t angry angry but I was disappointed.

Hearing this man’s take on the birds scoring the sandwich was a good reminder, sometimes you have to give what you have because others need it more than you.

Thanks for the reminder this morning, friend, I offered with a shy grin.

Sure.

Can I get you a coffee or a sandwich this morning for blessing me with this teaching?

No, I’m not hungry. Yet.

His words stopped me dead in my tracks.

No, I’m not hungry.

Yet.