Sunday Snap Shot

The morning is cool but still beneath pearl grey skies.  I hop on my bike and coast down to the river, lifting my head to fill  my nose with the crisp rush of birdsong.  Crested pigeons skitter and coo "woo-oot' in the leaves beside the trail, peep, peep, peeping as they fly away.  Dusky moor hens splash out of the thick reeds into the black tea of the Torrens.  Across the river, a wattle bird makes a hideous noise, and I stifle the urge to make unkind anthropomorphic comparisons.

I zip past the zoo and it smells of green hay and exotic urine.  Where the river gradually widens into the lake, I pause to watch a pair of black swans glide past, chatting softly to each other.  I am confused.  The conversation of two joggers momentarily overlays my observations.  The first swan asks,

"So how have you structured your retirement portfolio?"

"I'm heavily vested in dividend paying annuities and index funds."

"Do you have income protection in case you become disabled?"

"No, but if we swim up to this lady squatting next to the water, she might give us some bread."



I pedal into the city.  Of course, there is a festival being set up in the park.  Volunteers in blue shirts scurry through a maze of white plastic chairs and tents.  The Million Paws Walk...this place is going to be shit bark central in a few hours.  I make a note not to return this afternoon.

I pause again at the spillway and watch a flotilla of pelicans drift away.  Flycatchers zig and zag  tirelessly above the water then dive into their mud nests beneath the dam.  I wonder how many flies a human would have to eat each day to live?  I think that Australia has enough to feed the entire population.

The city noises are more distinct in the quiet of the morning, their outlines unblurred by din of daytime.  The squeal of train wheels on a curve, the roar of a jet coming in low over the cricket ground, the echo of the bells of the cathedral off the tall buildings flanking the river bank.  I follow the bells and briefly toy with the idea of going to mass, but they stop ringing as soon as I get there, so I take that as a sign.

Instead, I try to count the cockatoos that are riotously vying for a spot on the tallest spire and watch the parishioners filing into the building.  They are mostly old, but all are hunched over.  The cumulative weight of a life time of guilt and piety has bent their spines...or maybe the weight of the life is the reason they find solace in the musty hollows of a large stone building.  Through the doors, I can see the gold altar glittering, the priest in red trimmed bright white robes waving the gang signs of the Lord to his flock of peeps.  I decide the cockatoos are having far more fun, their yellow crests lifted in comical expressions of defiance.

My fingers are going numb, so I decide to head home, but I become mesmerized by a magic leaf and stop to run my battery down as a bunch of magpies chime like wood winds around me.



The house is warm and smells of last night's dinner.  I debate whether or not to share my mundane narrative of the morning.  Although pleasant and filled with sensory delights, it has not revealed any profound philosophical positions or conspicuously comical conclusions...But maybe sharing the ordinary moments of life is more valuable anyway...although not as valuable as a good disability insurance policy.