I hate crowds. I don't like to be bumped into, cut off or wait for someone who stops for no reason in front of me when I need to get by. I get a panicked feeling inside of me when this occurs and my flight instinct kicks in right away. For this reason I avoid Walmart, theme parks and other assorted gathering areas. But here I am at The Rose Parade, telling myself I am participating in joyful camaraderie.
For the most part I am not this cynical. I do have a love and a passion for the human race. I enjoy intimate company say in the private moments of a beautiful woman, a good friend or family. I take a deep breath as I am again pushed and shoved as I try to find a good vantage point. My hand rests on my digital camera as I make my way through the throngs of onlookers. I would take my companion to the parade and then grab a bite to eat. I knew that this would take a lot out of me, but at their suggestion, I agreed to accompany them to this event. I start wishing we would have went to eat first and my conversation would be so engaging we would opt to skip this part of the day.
"over here!" I am pulled to a spot that has opened in the front. I stand next to them awkwardly thinking I am too tall to be standing in the front. I know it is moments away before someone says they can't see.
Passing by on the street are people on floats smiling their plastic smiles and waving. Perception is everything right? Because I am miserable I have to assume they are too. I hear my couch calling me above the din. I look again at the people around me and must be relaxing. I see children excited and caught up in all of the action. They are yelling above the chatter of the crowds. Some are jumping as if thinking their efforts will lift them above the adults standing and enjoying the sights. One of them is lifted shrieking with delight to perch on the shoulders of what I am assuming is their big sister. Now I begin to understand the draw. I look again at the floats and the plastic smiles and think to myself, this is the Rose Parade. The plastic smiles may actually be real beams of pride and happiness. The biggest moment of some of their lives. Maybe the lost some sleep last night and would remember today for the rest of their lives. They would take their grandkids to this event and tell them they were once in this celebration.
I am breathing easier now and enjoying my company and the sights the day is unfolding in front of me, and as if on cue the sun breaks. Caught in the sun is a shadow of a miniature car, the silhouette of a clown with a big wig and honking a horn weaving and waving down the street. The children split into two parts, some wave and call out, others put their heads down into their chins hoping not to get any attention whatsoever from the clown. Bringing up the rear are a group of horses with the riders dressed in rodeo costumes. Now they look happy and proud, and a bit grand with the introduction of the sun. I always wished I could be a cowboy. Maybe that's why I ended up in Montana for a summer and rode fence. Now that was work.
They are smiling big and proud as they ride by, and the horses themselves seem very happy and energetic. One horse is walking and deposits road apples onto the asphalt. There are comments mumbled by parents, a few chuckles and some laughter from kids. The horse continues on its journey as it is leaving large droppings on its wake. The rider, oblivious or simply does not pay any mind to it. An electric cart with a mini dumpster bucket turns towards the horse droppings and is followed by a man with a flat shovel.
" Do you think he gets paid enough?" Comes a sarcastic remark from somewhere in the back. The crowd within earshot laughs out loud. The man seems to have heard the remark and flashes a million dollar smile in my direction as the comment came from directly behind me. Below the rim of the baseball hat that says "John Deere" I see the eyes and face of a friend from school. Shocked I recognized him right away. He was the guy in my dorm that was a resident assistant back in college. My college days were filled with him coming to my door and telling me the music was too loud. Breaking up parties and watching me come in from my bike rides or rushing through the lobby, my home work was going to be the death of me! He had handed out many warnings and documented many indiscretions to the residents there. He seemed always and forever uptight and anti social. Maybe when he grows up he'll be a doctor or a lawyer I always thought to myself. Never win the award for being the most social of people in the world. In fact, I was sure that he did what he did for a resume or some sort of what not. I forget his name even to this day. Looking back on this, I realize what he had was drive and purpose. He had an idea in his head a dream and motivation to take his schooling and life in general a lot more serious than I had. I measured my level of success in how many women I could talk to and how many parties I could go to. Wrong again. Here he was on my street attending my parade and invading my afternoon with his happy face. He was scooping up road apples! He looked happy, and that was a different face than he wore almost twenty years ago. It meant that he found hard work and dedication paid off a lot quicker for him.
Ironically I would want to raise children I may have to have those things. A desire to learn, a purpose in their lives and the stick to it attitude that will reap bountiful rewards, monetarily as well as spiritually. I can only assume things about this mans journey, and my assumption that any man that can look that happy scooping up shit must be a happy man. He thought that I had made the remark and his face said that he took it with a grain of salt, not with defensiveness or even a mild offense. He accepted it and was happy with his job. How doe he do that? I picture myself out there doing the same thing as I give him a smile and a nod. He does not recognize me but smiles back as if to say "no harm done." Still a teacher and inspiration after all of these years, quietly succeeding and making healthy choices. Ironically cleaning up the shit of animals again.
I had to ponder this. What was the lesson for me here? There are is no such thing as a coincidence. Did it mean that fate was getting tired of me coasting through life? Ws it time to shake up the grand scheme of things and try to do something bigger and brighter. Life is full of risks whether you take them or you don't. When you make a conscious decision to try something different at least you can look for the result and be aware of the ramifications. It can never be too late to start and the time was here and now. I put my arm around my companion who was watching the parade and she turned to me and smiled into my eyes. I smiled back and took a swig of my over priced coffee. I shook my head at the spot where the horse shit had been scooped up and my heart did a dance. I can start right now.
Now about your next assignment, a.) Anticipate what I am going to
> first ask you about your writing on our next encounter? b.) Another
> sharing of the world is in order between you and this individual you
> first saw out of the bus window. In this case you are watching the
> Rose Parade. As it winds down there is a platoon of sweeps that come
> along to clean up the horse shit dropped by the parade cowboys
> horses. You are surprised to see Mr. X there pushing a broom. Tell
> me what happens? Dr. C.
Thank you Dr.C for this assignment. I will see you soon, and I appreciate the constant challenges in writing that you have been giving me. I trust that you are being unbiased with your grading system. It looks like looking back on them I am getting a 3.0. Which is above average and nothing to settle but at the same time nothing to complain about either.
Aaron
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
bus stop
This morning was especially memorable. It felt like my shoes had gotten wet. The air was crisp and a slight breeze cut slow and mean through the fabric of my soul. The thin layer of warmth was dirty and I knew I had to get up and stamp my feet to get circulation going again through my feet. I had stepped into a drift of snow that allowed snow to get through the cuff of my pant legs. The snow wedged itself between my boot and the side of my ankle. It then melted making it's way half way down my sock before stopping, and the air was cold making my ankles itch and burn at the same time. I was tired, hungry and just a bit angry at the world and the situation at hand. If I had a couch left to go to, I would collapse into it. I would gaze at the ceiling and revel in my warmth and solitude. Somewhere right now someone was doing just that, maybe they had a hot cup of spicy cider that was sending a waft of steam and aroma into the air. Maybe they had their clean jet white socks propped up on the end of the couch and with one hand on hot porcelain, they were absent mindedly flicking from channel to channel on their t.v.
I watched tiny snow flakes bob and weave on the cold thermals making their way down to us here on the mud streaked sidewalk. White bits of paper torn into little pieces and dropped from a balcony down past a fan and onto a stage where a tragedy was playing out. They rested some on my face, quickly melting, their journey ending and tickling my face. I wondered how far they had come, and did they have a concept of time and space as they fell. Lazy journey watching the world get bigger and bigger as it tried to find a place to rest. I just wanted to be a snowflake from it's conception. Every-time a gust burst across my path I would be shot across an immense universe.
It felt like the wind was slow and deliberate, I watched travelers on the sidewalk with their faces tucked down into their shoulders walking fast with purpose. On the way to work. On the way to meet someone. On the way to eat. Sometimes I would ask for change, other times just asking for the time. I had no reason to know what time it was, but I had every reason to be acknowledged. Brief as it may be, I had been ignored so many times before. I stomp my feet and try to believe it is helping. I start to walk past the shops and bars. Each of them inviting and damning me at the same time. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk in front of me, thankful for the weather this time and this time only as I now have a reason to make no eye contact with anyone.
A bus stop. Empty and surrounded by glass on three sides. Shelter and that's what I need now. I retreat to one corner of it that cuts the wind a little but it still comes in bursts from various angles cruel and inescapable but for moments. I draw a breath and wonder if the lump in my throat is from this injustice or the other one. The tears are from the cold wind I tell myself. The window panes of glass have frost on them and there are smudges that have been wiped away for passengers in the cubicle to see the street. Sloppy clouded over windows to the road waiting to display the arrival of a bus. Slush from the road is muddy and has splashed the bottom portion of the bus stop glass and frozen as it slid down. Just the dirt mind you, creating an collage of splats. Don't they do that with paint on canvas and call it art? I wipe away one of the already smudges. I watch big trucks and sedans make their way through the streets of downtown Anchorage. The cabs are warm and the radios are telling the passengers about road conditions, weather, news, songs. Some of the windshield wipers are flicking away. Hardly a flurry of snow and they work the wipers. Someone has made a smily face on the window in my sanctuary, I wipe it away with mild annoyance. Lucky I didn't spit on it! Not a great morning and don't recall the last good one I had.
I hear the bus before I see it. I am in a different world, back at home and I have my feet up again. Here it comes, I wish I had somewhere to go! If I did I chuckle, I don't have the bus fare. That panicked me. The driver was going to stop, and why not? I was standing in the bus stop. It was interruption at its finest. The bus wheels grinding and crunching the snow in hollow rapid thumps as it came to a stop. The hydraulics sounded like they were pumping steam. My god was this a freakish snow train or a bus. It didn't matter. The door swung open. I stood there. I wanted to say something. The bus driver seemed so high up in his seat as if he was looking down on me from an Aztec pyramid. The light from the interior domes was the beating sun in a lush jungle sun wicked and hot. I had a thousand sentences and explanations cast into my mind and it oscillated violently into a certain nothingness. He stares at me forever, like the snow stopped it's journey and held fixed in grey amber. Why nothing? I watch his lips tighten. He does half a head shake, quick and almost undetectable. That was for me? My toes scrunch up in my damp socks. The bus is thrown into gear and ALL of the faces peer out the warm windows in jungle light staring at me, arriving at conclusions. Someone has poured cement over my body and it has dried quickly. I dare not stare back at them but I cannot break my observation of each bus window passing me by with different faces. It's a queer comic strip that passes with various expressions on different heads. Most are a glance and quickly look away. A man does this, and jerks his head around, he wants to say something to me and can't. The window, the departure of the bus. He raises a hand half way and puts it down again. For a moment it reminds me of class when I think I know the answer and realize I don't. My hand shoots part way up and quickly down before I am called on.
What was it? Who are you? Did you recognize me? You saw me, and on this miserable day and you left. You left! You could have pulled the cord man. You could have gotten off the bus and just said something. I didn't care if you did or didn't. Walk past me and get out of your comic strip. Make me real.
Dear Dr. Crawshaw-
That was a cool assignment. You asked that I be one of the homeless people I told you that stand outside Harbor lights on my way to work. You twisted it once and then twice. You asked that I BE one of the homeless and see ME on the bus going by. It was a wonderful tasty challenge to come up with the scenario and I appreciate it. Thank you. I will see you soon. Have a good day.
With warm regards,
Aaron Greenberg
I watched tiny snow flakes bob and weave on the cold thermals making their way down to us here on the mud streaked sidewalk. White bits of paper torn into little pieces and dropped from a balcony down past a fan and onto a stage where a tragedy was playing out. They rested some on my face, quickly melting, their journey ending and tickling my face. I wondered how far they had come, and did they have a concept of time and space as they fell. Lazy journey watching the world get bigger and bigger as it tried to find a place to rest. I just wanted to be a snowflake from it's conception. Every-time a gust burst across my path I would be shot across an immense universe.
It felt like the wind was slow and deliberate, I watched travelers on the sidewalk with their faces tucked down into their shoulders walking fast with purpose. On the way to work. On the way to meet someone. On the way to eat. Sometimes I would ask for change, other times just asking for the time. I had no reason to know what time it was, but I had every reason to be acknowledged. Brief as it may be, I had been ignored so many times before. I stomp my feet and try to believe it is helping. I start to walk past the shops and bars. Each of them inviting and damning me at the same time. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk in front of me, thankful for the weather this time and this time only as I now have a reason to make no eye contact with anyone.
A bus stop. Empty and surrounded by glass on three sides. Shelter and that's what I need now. I retreat to one corner of it that cuts the wind a little but it still comes in bursts from various angles cruel and inescapable but for moments. I draw a breath and wonder if the lump in my throat is from this injustice or the other one. The tears are from the cold wind I tell myself. The window panes of glass have frost on them and there are smudges that have been wiped away for passengers in the cubicle to see the street. Sloppy clouded over windows to the road waiting to display the arrival of a bus. Slush from the road is muddy and has splashed the bottom portion of the bus stop glass and frozen as it slid down. Just the dirt mind you, creating an collage of splats. Don't they do that with paint on canvas and call it art? I wipe away one of the already smudges. I watch big trucks and sedans make their way through the streets of downtown Anchorage. The cabs are warm and the radios are telling the passengers about road conditions, weather, news, songs. Some of the windshield wipers are flicking away. Hardly a flurry of snow and they work the wipers. Someone has made a smily face on the window in my sanctuary, I wipe it away with mild annoyance. Lucky I didn't spit on it! Not a great morning and don't recall the last good one I had.
I hear the bus before I see it. I am in a different world, back at home and I have my feet up again. Here it comes, I wish I had somewhere to go! If I did I chuckle, I don't have the bus fare. That panicked me. The driver was going to stop, and why not? I was standing in the bus stop. It was interruption at its finest. The bus wheels grinding and crunching the snow in hollow rapid thumps as it came to a stop. The hydraulics sounded like they were pumping steam. My god was this a freakish snow train or a bus. It didn't matter. The door swung open. I stood there. I wanted to say something. The bus driver seemed so high up in his seat as if he was looking down on me from an Aztec pyramid. The light from the interior domes was the beating sun in a lush jungle sun wicked and hot. I had a thousand sentences and explanations cast into my mind and it oscillated violently into a certain nothingness. He stares at me forever, like the snow stopped it's journey and held fixed in grey amber. Why nothing? I watch his lips tighten. He does half a head shake, quick and almost undetectable. That was for me? My toes scrunch up in my damp socks. The bus is thrown into gear and ALL of the faces peer out the warm windows in jungle light staring at me, arriving at conclusions. Someone has poured cement over my body and it has dried quickly. I dare not stare back at them but I cannot break my observation of each bus window passing me by with different faces. It's a queer comic strip that passes with various expressions on different heads. Most are a glance and quickly look away. A man does this, and jerks his head around, he wants to say something to me and can't. The window, the departure of the bus. He raises a hand half way and puts it down again. For a moment it reminds me of class when I think I know the answer and realize I don't. My hand shoots part way up and quickly down before I am called on.
What was it? Who are you? Did you recognize me? You saw me, and on this miserable day and you left. You left! You could have pulled the cord man. You could have gotten off the bus and just said something. I didn't care if you did or didn't. Walk past me and get out of your comic strip. Make me real.
Dear Dr. Crawshaw-
That was a cool assignment. You asked that I be one of the homeless people I told you that stand outside Harbor lights on my way to work. You twisted it once and then twice. You asked that I BE one of the homeless and see ME on the bus going by. It was a wonderful tasty challenge to come up with the scenario and I appreciate it. Thank you. I will see you soon. Have a good day.
With warm regards,
Aaron Greenberg
an email
I wanted to share this email I was writing someone.
I was emailing a friend who wanted me to tell them my story and I wanted to share part of it with my friends and family. This basically a memory of my childhood. I have been blessed with an amazing family, and I thank the powers that be everyday that allowed me to walk with them through this life. As a result of being raised with my family, I have acquired many beautiful friendships and I am grateful for that eternally.
Okay. Here is an abridged version of my life. I have been kicking around the planet for 37 years. I was adopted into a wonderful family when I was two weeks old. My parents are amazing, I'll get back to them in a bit. They brought my two big sisters into the world together at a pretty young age. I believe they were in their early twenties. My father is jewish and my mother is christian, young and ready to take on the world all in the name of young love they adopted my now big brother Reuben. He is half black and half white. Each of us four children are three years apart in age. They decided on me as their final child and at the time they were living in Nome Alaska. They went to Anchorage to pick me up...mom says the stewardesses fell in love with me from the moment I was brought onto the plane. I picture my babies today as little brown babies with a shock of pencil sketch hair and chubby brown thighs and cheeks. I really want children of my own someday. So I lived in Nome for a short period f time and we moved to Juneau. Later on in life I would call Anchorage, Juneau and Nome home again.
Mom and dad did the best they could to raise a wonderful family. They never pressed religious issues on us. I went to more jewish functions than christian. I know a couple jewish prayers, in fact the only real christian holiday I practice is Christmas. This is mostly family time and friend time. So here we are a family of six, and we have family nights, we have nights where part of our chores are to cook as part of our chores. This would help us later a bit in life, being unafraid of the kitchen. One of them started putting poetry or short story books on our plates at dinner time. We would read something before our meal. This was our version of prayer I guess and a great way to learn and teach at the same time. I am still taken aback when I think back on things like this.
We were raised in an amazing house. Humble, at the top of a hill with stone steps that wound up to the porch. The walk up to the house would take you past blueberries, huckleberries, a strawberry patch and salmonberries. I ate a lot of all of these. We had a garden that was on the top of the hill adjacent to a small lawn. Our back yard was a forest that I played in, the neighbors had beach access right across the road.
I boated, fished and beach combed quite often. Amazing I never sustained any real injuries running at full tilt across the many large boulders that lined the waters edge at high tide. One of my favorite childhood places at high tide was a rocky cave. I found it one day as I was paddling the cove in a dingy. I pulled up to the entrance and paddled right in. I was delighted to find that the ceiling was vaulted. The sun shone through a hole in the ceiling of the cave. I can still hear the gentle lap of the tide on the inside and see the light playing a beautiful light show on the rocky roof. The light would bend and bounce in the salty ocean and send lines waving on the roof. I was able to tie down my little vessel and climb up on the rocks and up through the hole. I was on the beach. I had passed this little treasure many times on my adventures on the beach.
There are few treasures in my life that can match the discoveries I went through at Lena Cove in Juneau, Alaska. I still remember tasting the salt on my lips and the wind in my hair, the lapping of the waves and the distant screeching of Gulls and Eagles. I could sit and find myself on the shores. The sun warming my face and my soul at total and complete ease with the world.
Growing up on Lena Loop road meant we had unpaved roads, we were 17 miles out of town. In fact if someone asked you where you lived, you could simply say 17 mile. They knew. So there were culverts, we had ample amounts of rain. The rain would wash over the dirt roads and drain onto the culverts. When a real down pour would occur, I would wait eagerly for the kids to come pounding on the door. It would be just a matter of time before we were knee deep in mud and water building dams and getting covered from head to toe with delicious mud.
We could walk the forest on trails we had made, build forts or play hide and seek, regardless of our activity our playground was soft flourescent green moss and tall trees covered with witches hair and more moss. There were berries all over the place and be careful of the devils club, it would sting you with its thorns, you also might have an experience with nettles, which will sting you as well, but it was more tricky. It looked like a normal piece of greenery but pow. It would nab you out of the blue. The solution? Wasn't it ferns?
So that's the house, the neighborhood and the seashore. As I walk down memory lane, I can hardly exclude the fishing. We had a basement that had our tackle in it and we could shore cast or take the boat out. Dolly Varden trout was my personal favorite. Delicate trout that could be cooked right on the shore. These fish were beautiful and during the right part of the year- very aggressive. That meant ample fish to be caught. I'm talkin' drop your line in and reel it in baby. On the way up you will see 3 or 4 chasing your lure. And the strike, and the pull the tilt of your pole as they dive for safety. The fight and the flash of their skin as they get closer to surface, they break the surface and you pull them in the boat. Action is so intense in the water you might just say, well that one is too small. Back in the water buddy, and you watch it swim away.
I loved to hear an eagle fly over me. These birds are amazing. You can hear there wings woosh as they make their way across the sky, from the distance from where they are to you and hear their wings is not easily describable. I believe their nests are the same weight as a small volkswagon. Yo. That's a bird.
Hey I went on longer than I thought I would with this story. I thought to myself I would send this to my family, so I'll break here.
I was emailing a friend who wanted me to tell them my story and I wanted to share part of it with my friends and family. This basically a memory of my childhood. I have been blessed with an amazing family, and I thank the powers that be everyday that allowed me to walk with them through this life. As a result of being raised with my family, I have acquired many beautiful friendships and I am grateful for that eternally.
Okay. Here is an abridged version of my life. I have been kicking around the planet for 37 years. I was adopted into a wonderful family when I was two weeks old. My parents are amazing, I'll get back to them in a bit. They brought my two big sisters into the world together at a pretty young age. I believe they were in their early twenties. My father is jewish and my mother is christian, young and ready to take on the world all in the name of young love they adopted my now big brother Reuben. He is half black and half white. Each of us four children are three years apart in age. They decided on me as their final child and at the time they were living in Nome Alaska. They went to Anchorage to pick me up...mom says the stewardesses fell in love with me from the moment I was brought onto the plane. I picture my babies today as little brown babies with a shock of pencil sketch hair and chubby brown thighs and cheeks. I really want children of my own someday. So I lived in Nome for a short period f time and we moved to Juneau. Later on in life I would call Anchorage, Juneau and Nome home again.
Mom and dad did the best they could to raise a wonderful family. They never pressed religious issues on us. I went to more jewish functions than christian. I know a couple jewish prayers, in fact the only real christian holiday I practice is Christmas. This is mostly family time and friend time. So here we are a family of six, and we have family nights, we have nights where part of our chores are to cook as part of our chores. This would help us later a bit in life, being unafraid of the kitchen. One of them started putting poetry or short story books on our plates at dinner time. We would read something before our meal. This was our version of prayer I guess and a great way to learn and teach at the same time. I am still taken aback when I think back on things like this.
We were raised in an amazing house. Humble, at the top of a hill with stone steps that wound up to the porch. The walk up to the house would take you past blueberries, huckleberries, a strawberry patch and salmonberries. I ate a lot of all of these. We had a garden that was on the top of the hill adjacent to a small lawn. Our back yard was a forest that I played in, the neighbors had beach access right across the road.
I boated, fished and beach combed quite often. Amazing I never sustained any real injuries running at full tilt across the many large boulders that lined the waters edge at high tide. One of my favorite childhood places at high tide was a rocky cave. I found it one day as I was paddling the cove in a dingy. I pulled up to the entrance and paddled right in. I was delighted to find that the ceiling was vaulted. The sun shone through a hole in the ceiling of the cave. I can still hear the gentle lap of the tide on the inside and see the light playing a beautiful light show on the rocky roof. The light would bend and bounce in the salty ocean and send lines waving on the roof. I was able to tie down my little vessel and climb up on the rocks and up through the hole. I was on the beach. I had passed this little treasure many times on my adventures on the beach.
There are few treasures in my life that can match the discoveries I went through at Lena Cove in Juneau, Alaska. I still remember tasting the salt on my lips and the wind in my hair, the lapping of the waves and the distant screeching of Gulls and Eagles. I could sit and find myself on the shores. The sun warming my face and my soul at total and complete ease with the world.
Growing up on Lena Loop road meant we had unpaved roads, we were 17 miles out of town. In fact if someone asked you where you lived, you could simply say 17 mile. They knew. So there were culverts, we had ample amounts of rain. The rain would wash over the dirt roads and drain onto the culverts. When a real down pour would occur, I would wait eagerly for the kids to come pounding on the door. It would be just a matter of time before we were knee deep in mud and water building dams and getting covered from head to toe with delicious mud.
We could walk the forest on trails we had made, build forts or play hide and seek, regardless of our activity our playground was soft flourescent green moss and tall trees covered with witches hair and more moss. There were berries all over the place and be careful of the devils club, it would sting you with its thorns, you also might have an experience with nettles, which will sting you as well, but it was more tricky. It looked like a normal piece of greenery but pow. It would nab you out of the blue. The solution? Wasn't it ferns?
So that's the house, the neighborhood and the seashore. As I walk down memory lane, I can hardly exclude the fishing. We had a basement that had our tackle in it and we could shore cast or take the boat out. Dolly Varden trout was my personal favorite. Delicate trout that could be cooked right on the shore. These fish were beautiful and during the right part of the year- very aggressive. That meant ample fish to be caught. I'm talkin' drop your line in and reel it in baby. On the way up you will see 3 or 4 chasing your lure. And the strike, and the pull the tilt of your pole as they dive for safety. The fight and the flash of their skin as they get closer to surface, they break the surface and you pull them in the boat. Action is so intense in the water you might just say, well that one is too small. Back in the water buddy, and you watch it swim away.
I loved to hear an eagle fly over me. These birds are amazing. You can hear there wings woosh as they make their way across the sky, from the distance from where they are to you and hear their wings is not easily describable. I believe their nests are the same weight as a small volkswagon. Yo. That's a bird.
Hey I went on longer than I thought I would with this story. I thought to myself I would send this to my family, so I'll break here.
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