What does a bird think of us? It’s all conjecture, isn’t it?
No bird uses Google search, which would then allow its interests to be tracked, thus exposing a pattern of thought, maybe something of its reactions to us.
Hard to blame the bird on this one. What does it need to know that it didn’t know before the computer came along?
We have the big brains, and the richest brains among us use algorithms to track to track all the brains with less money, though relatively few of the brains with no money.
That’s how the richest brains make their money. Focusing on the brains interested in money.
No redwing blackbird has bought into the monetary system, the human-based artificial storehouse of value. It has yet to enter its credit card information into its phone so it can use it to conveniently buy coffee and scones.
Imagine that: a bird that doesn’t drink coffee—even when it doesn’t need to brew it first.
It may not even have a credit card. It doesn’t seem to have a pocket for a card, and I haven’t noticed a card dangling from a claw as it flies along.
We may not be able to discern a bird’s feelings about us, but its lack of interest in caffeine and convenience seems readily evident.
Faced with the presence of an unknown human, most birds fly away. But the redwing sits on the handrail of the bridge as I pedal by.
Am I watching the bird? Or is the bird watching me?
If I ride by a redwing’s nest, the redwing will fly at my helmet, something I rarely see on a bird. Why, then, the interest in my helmet?
Maybe it thinks my helmet is an egg that somehow escaped the nest—escaped and quickly learned to pedal a bicycle, too.
That would warrant a closer look, I suppose.
What do you think, blackbird?
April 30, 1 mile.
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