We are strolling through the park to preschool. The sun is shining, the children are proceeding in the right direction at the right pace. Suddenly a crow flies by, with a nestling fieldfare in its beak, the parents chack-chacking in outraged pursuit. I’m outraged too- after all that, the marauding crow is just going to get away with it.
We are at the icecream shop over the road, not buying a dog icecream, though we could if we wanted, but a normal one. First indulging in the favoured Polish sport of waiting in a queue for half an hour, and then having to eat a carrot sorbet because all the really good ones have been eaten by the hipster dogs of Mokotów. Suddenly the kids start to yelp with excitement. There’s a baby bird, feathered but with the stumpy wings and bald patches which show it probably can’t fly and really has no chance. A broken nest lies on the ground. The baby bird is huddled up next to a park seat and Janek and Maja dance around it with glee, having no idea what its fate will be.
The next day we are still feeling guilty. We could have taken it home and brought it earthworms and called the bird rescuers. Given it some mince and kept it in a box and released it back into the wild…
Anyway, we didn’t. But I did remember that the birds in the park aren’t just there so I can have the nice little hobby of observing them during the interminable walk to and from pre-school, or to pretty up my turd-strewn urban life with their song. It’s a jungle out there, actually. In case you didn’t know