I was walking North on Fulton and I heard that hawk sound. You know, the hawk sound? The one that goes with the purple mountains majesty, and the soaring heights and the vast expanse of glorious natural fundament, and the tired Indian on the tired horse and all that stuff? You know, the hawk sound. It goes... let's see. Kinda like a, it's a, uh... kind of a screeeAAA...ch...uh. With a sort of raspy thing on the end of it. Geez, it's in all the movies and commercials.
Anyway, that sound. So I stopped, cocked my ear, and said, "Do that again!"
And it did it again, and I used my built in sonar to determine the direction from which it... what's the correct word... Uh, absorbed in reverse, deabsorbed, and I looked in that direction, and there was this little bird about three inches long sitting on this thing under a thing.
Well, I shouldn't have to tell you that I was just about ready to get severely pissed off, but I didn't yet, so I looked at that bird and said, "Do it again, I dare you."
And it opened its stupid little beak and went scrEEEaaa...fyunch...click...ch.
So. That's it then, I guess. It ain't a hawk that makes that sound. It's this puny little... SQUAB. Thanks, SQUAB, for taking a tremendous SQUAT on forty years of hardwired memories.
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