A bird ripped off another bird’s song. The second bird was just one tree away, in a shorter tree, and that first bird, in the taller tree, had practiced for weeks, maybe even months, had felt his way through the song, not only mastered the melody but added personal touches, elongating a note, shortening up a rest, beginning a thrilling trilling part toward the end and then suddenly snapping off into silence. But what did any of that matter? The Second Bird had a brain, and that brain had a maze, and that maze had arrows on the floor that indicated its mission, not especially complex, but not resistible at any rate: to listen and to lift. Listen, check. Lift, check. The maze had converted the song to community property. Had nature widened the world or narrowed it? How hard would the First Bird cry? Would the First Bird compose a new song that told the tale of the theft? An epic? Only history could say. At the base of the trees, two men punched each other in the face, shouting the names of each others’ wives and daughters.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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