The Triumph of a Quail

Inasmuch as I have put to myself the task of trying to tell you an inquisitive story in which I am myself apprehensive—I shall begin by leaving you with some notion of me (3-28-2011).

Very well then, I am a man of sixty-three, rather a robust in size and with auburn hair, what’s left of it. I wear glasses. Until five years ago, I lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I had a few different positions, a psychologist for the Federal Government Prison system, and an entrepreneur—of a small sort, and a poet and writer of a small stature. I am married to a Peruvian woman, and have moved to Lima—although I am still a resident of Minnesota for the most part. And have adopted an abandoned Quail. We named her after the preacher that brought her to us, homeless, and have since put her in our house garden, her name being, Marcelina. She has in a way of speaking, a quiet form of smiling at one, as though to say…we may go into that later.

It was a hard jolt for me, to take on a quail, feed her, and try to not look foolish in the process of adopting her, and talking to her, and perhaps even now, after a month of having her, there might be a kind of satisfaction in making myself look silly by telling of it—this story, which is really only an account of how a quail, triumphed.

To tell the truth, I felt in the beginning a little foolish that I should be feeding her along with the other birds that come into our open garden daily—a special diet, chasing pigeons away from her—they appeared as if they were interested in her, and were following her as if to attack her; as if I am a grand guard standing at the gate to the Garden of Eden like Gabriel, pacing back and forth.

“I’ve got an idea,” my wife told me.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ll take your idea of a night light that could heat up a box, and make a box for Marcelina, and she’ll sleep in it at night.”

Well she did just that, found a big cardboard box, for the plump little quail, that didn’t care to go into the box but sat outside along the glass door on a mat, until I finished reading at night, let’s say, 2:00 a.m. and learning she was afraid of the dark—I had to learn Quail-logy, the tone of my voice she knows now, and I’ve told her it is safe to go into that box house at night, so after I leave my office at 2:00 a.m., she does just that.

She’s just a big baby, and shits as must as one big human baby, or as often I should say, as one. She had my sympathies for a while, but to be truthful, it is waning.

“Hurry up over here, see Marcelina,” my wife cries to me, a few days ago. She’s learned something new, I think from the sparrows, or maybe me.

“What?” I ask my wife.

“Look, just look at her all sprawling body and soft feathers, and kind eyes, laying there.” She actually looked as if she was sunbathing on the Lima beach.

So I looked, and she was correct, Marcelina had learned fast how to be lazy. ‘Gee whiz,’ I said to myself, ‘what’s next?’

Well, what was next is this: every time a pigeon comes, she now calls me to come into the garden—breaks my concentration of writing, and sure enough, there is a pigeon. But now she calls me at night because she’s still a little afraid of the dark—can you imagine a quail afraid of the dark, by gosh, had I not experienced this with my own eyes, I’d had told anybody who told me: a quail was afraid of the dark, to go see colleague of mine. If anything, I’m getting more exercise these days.

I keep thinking of when we go to the mountains where we have another home, and stay there for three months out of each year, what will become of her. Let’s be honest, how long can this go on? My wife is hoping she has a longevity living in our garden. I’m praying she sprouts those little wings (more like fins) and gets married soon, or finds a mate.

The good thing is, they don’t get extraordinarily large, the bad thing is, they don’t get immaculately clean.

Now for Marcelina Rose’s story. Yes, my wife Rosa has given her a second name of all things. Anyhow, her story is interesting. Some person in a car dropped her off at the church, of all things. It was late in the afternoon, and a dog had chased her, and evidently he was hungry, and had deadly intentions. And Father Marcelo came to the rescue, he and several young church members, they came waving their arms and calling to the quail—as if the quail was going to march over to them. So the quail of course had three traumatic experiences in a roll: the car thing, the hungry dog, and now the kids waving their hands trying to rescue the creature, and did, and put her in a cloths basket—a wobbly prison for her.

Dang it all! Now for the neighbour, that is me and Rosa, so we ended up with her; for the first week, she hid behind the totem pole in the garden, and then worked her way all the way to my glass door—I was hoping she’d silently work her way back to the totem pole, but that also scares her at night.

And when she yelps, all the neighbours can hear her, she somehow extends that neck of hers four inches or so—and that’s a lot for her, because she’s not much longer than that, and whatever she’s saying comes out like a rustic bell—echoing like a loudspeaker. All channelled through that extended neck.

But I have learned something of all this: big brain little brain, I don’t know what she has, but she feels pain, and she feels love and she can feel hunger, and safety, and she knows cold from hot. She can learn certain behaviours, I don’t think Carl Sagan would like to hear this but, she’s not as dumb as you might think she should be—she knows who wants to hurt her, and who doesn’t—she can get tightly gripped with the latter.

As for her story—she couldn’t tell it, and so I’ve tried to do my best for her, that is to say, I’ve perhaps used the imaginative side of myself to explain her, but it’s the best I can do—and she has, if anything, thus far, triumphed.

No: 785 (3-28-2011) For Rosa, Father Marcelo and Marcelina Rose

The Third Kind of Sparrow

(or, “The Yellow Sparrow”)



The briskly, yellow sparrow had not been born in Mr. Evens’ garden like so many other of the sparrows that patronized his little patch of land he personally made for them, but he was there as if he had been, and perhaps lingered about more so than many of the other forty sparrows and doves that lived there, or thought they lived there, and the old man, thought it was about time for the one and only Yellow Sparrow to eat something, I mean he had been there going on eighteen months, God forbid, he came and he left and he never ate. I mean, here was a small house garden, with no roof to enclose them, so they could come freely to and fro and even go over to the nearby park and when hungry and thirsty, come back for fresh water in a clean ceramic container, five weekly cleaned out birdhouses that they seemed to go in and out of like a busy metropolis, and all the fast food you could eat—the best seeds this side of Alaska, all the greenery, tall and short, a bird could play in, and a clean—weekly cleaned out, freshly watered birdbath one could swim in or just float, take a bath or shower anytime of the day, and no crows, or pigeons to eat you up in-between, and he wanted to know, why he came only to take a bath, and chitchat with his fellow birds.
I mean the bird always smiled, and for a bird to smile it was difficult, with those short faces and tiny beaks, but they can: they puff up those side cheeks, and curve up those muscles under their eyes, and those feathers appear to squeeze together, and that is their smile, in a nutshell.
But let me describe him and his tiptoeing to the birdbath: first of all he’s (I think he is a he—he could be a she) a clutching little fat yellow breasted sparrow (perhaps more wide than fat), when I say clutching, I mean he hangs onto things tightly—(perhaps all birds do) or at least he appears to, as onto the branches of the greenery in the garden, or onto the edge of the birdbath, and so forth, tightly. After his bath, he flaps those little wings to adjust whatever he’s adjusting, rigorously, and like a little wrench tightening himself up, tidy like, he’s got to be the cleanest sparrow this side of the Gulf of Mexico, and I’m in Lima, Peru. Furthermore, who is ever around, this yellow bird when he takes a bath, gets a shower free, as he briskly dries those wings of his off; funny, every sparrow around seems to automatically create a distance from him, after his birdbath, and many during his bath. But I’m not absented-minded, the premise of this story is, “Why does he not eat?”
We all have our own ideas of why this is one way and why something else is that way, and I’ve come to my conclusion of why the Yellow Sparrow does what he does, or in this case doesn’t do, what I think he should do, meaning ‘eat,’ perhaps the only one conclusion I could come up with that makes any sense to me: there are not only two kinds of sparrows in the world, such as to say, those everlasting hungry sparrows who seem to eat and fly and play about constantly, or the sparrows who like to find a peaceful place to chitchat, live and sleep— there is a third kind, a select kind, one who could careless about the peacefulness or the availability of food, he is the Yellow Sparrow kind, he is the third kind, the one I could never have told you about unless I saw it with my own eyes, the birdbath sparrow, the addicted sparrow to cleanliness (like my wife, Rosa), instead of all that other stuff—which I ‘m sure he likes the peacefulness of the garden, and perhaps when I’m not around he may find a seed or two to eat on the ground, but I’m convinced, if you gave him the choice, he’d pick that birdbath every time over eating or sleeping.

No 706/ (11-01-2010)
Dedicated to the Yellow Sparrow, Rosa Peñaloza and Enrique H.

A Baby Pajarito Adventures (No: II)

A Baby Pajarito Adventures (No: II)

The Deadly Vulture


I sat back in the chair (in my Lima home, trying to finish up on some writing I was doing on “The Cotton Belt,” a short novel), hearing wings and noise out in my garden (but a few feet away, with the glass doors open), it was forenoon, I suppose I was thinking of what I was going to have for lunch and the editing process of the new story, it was the first of May, 2010.
A month before this happening, one of the sparrows from my garden, had gotten my attention by snapping her wings somehow and making all kinds of squeaking noises, and its wings were flapping wildly in the thin air, in front of my office window, some big bird had gotten into the garden and true instinct of this old Midwestern boy made him stop whatever he was doing and look towards where the noise was coming from; I had never seen a picture of a bird looking you right straight in the eyeballs and no more than a few feet away, lets say seven feet away—until this very moment, and I looked behind the bird, deeper into the garden and lo and behold, it was like a race-track, a big bird chasing the mother bird’s sibling—and I think it was Baby Pajarito—although hard to say, four birds were born in my garden in a seven month period—although Baby Pajarito has his own personal character. And I came to the rescue and chased the other bird away.
Well, I must tell you about what happened the second time since now you’ve got the rhythm of the first story and this opens up clarity for the second, that is to say, since I let you in on the first part it will be easier to absorb the second: it was on the first of May, of what I’m talking about—and perhaps all this can be put under the category of bird insight, or intuition (in particular, what a mother would be willing to do to save her child, if given the opportunity).
I was working again in the same manner I described in the first sentence, and paragraph, and lo and behold, something got my attention again, I would tell you the trouble the birds had getting my attention this time, beating their wings and making noises I’m sure, their way of showing their freighting experience at hand, but the only thing I can remember is the noise and clatter and looking to my side and lo an behold, a big legged vulture was chasing Baby Pajarito on the garden platform that surrounds the plot, like a dog chasing a cat, or a cat chasing a rat, or a rat chasing its prey, and the vulture was beak to tail, and Baby Pajarito had only two-half feather for a tail at this time, and the vulture was nibbling at that little tail wing, and I jumped, and leaped out onto the platform, and the vulture turned about (just about ready to swallow Baby Pajarito whole), and stood his ground and I grabbed a broom pole and stood mine, and he backed off and flew to the top of the garden wall, and defied me until I missed him by an inch with a deadly rock and that was the end of Mr. Vulture, he turned to the sky and adios amigo.

No: 622 (written at the request of Ana Maria Peñaloza, after reading the first story of Baby Pajarito) 5-17-2010

Baby Pajarito (in English and Spanish)

English Version

Baby Pajarito
((Baby Bird) (Part one of two))
By Dennis Siluk Ed.D.

Two-yards from my glass door there is a garden of high and dense foliage, and the dirt is rich and dark, and there is a birdbath in the house garden and overhead a blue and tranquil sky—nearly everyday in the summer, it is like this
some of the plants grown two stories high, and we have two birdhouses (woops, now three) in the garden, and food available, and a variety of small birds fly to and fro—that is, in and out, and lounge about in this free and natural zone—more likened to a resort or Garden of Eden for the birds, within this city called Lima, a city of eight-million people, and five million cars, and smog galore, and a polluted river that runs through it center.
Ten years ago when I first moved into this house, I got the notion to plant a garden, and watch it grow! As a result, I’ve been digging and planting, and watering and hoeing in this garden close to ten-years now, and I’m aiming to dig another ten, if indeed I am still living here, and able to do it. I figured I would make the garden livable for birds, I felt it in my bones those long hot summer days in Lima. It made sense to me to start from scratch, and in those ten-years I must have put a ton or two of new dark and rich dirt into that little garden. I just kept plugging away at it as if one day something was going to happen, then in the summer of 2010, it did happen, I told my wife, we no longer need patience—the birds, sparrows in particular, had found a home, and they came one by one, and by the time the summer was nearly over, there were fifteen to twenty birds that came into the garden on a regular bases (four of them newly born sparrows born in my garden, and thus became imprinted, and expectant on me to feed them, and protect them, and so forth and so on), daily—the year prior to this they had also come, but not as plentiful, outwardly, some died off throughout the winter months, sparrows often do, they can’t seem to tolerated such abrupt changes in whether, or cold weather per se.

Baby Pajarito, was born in my garden—he is the last of the four sparrows born here—or so I claim, looking over the top and through the leafage I discovered one day, Mother Pajarito, had built a nest and there were two small eggs from this brown house sparrow (this would be the third or forth sparrow born in our garden—there was two eggs so who came first is really a mystery—; but in 2009, two were born, and now in 2010, another two). I’ve always been a religious man, all my life I have, and I’ve always done the best I could, no matter how much I was unaware of God’s little creatures, but for some reason, this garden, this nest and these four eggs seemed to be a church, I was proud to divide with God. And I watched the mother overnight with my flashlight sitting on those last two small eggs, the last two eggs of the four. As the little birds inside were growing into real life bird shapes. I just couldn’t take my eyes off those eggs.
“Where’d you say those eggs were, Dennis?” asked Rosa my wife.
“Over there near the twisting staircase!” I said.
“You’ve taken a liking for them, Dennis?” she asked.
“I sure to God have,” I said. “And that’s a fact.”
And so for a few weeks we watched the eggs, and one day, I was tickled to find the baby was born, and Rosa would call this one Baby Pajarito (Meaning: Baby Bird), but one egg did not crack, it would remain so for a little while longer, and a sparrow would be born, I think the infant bird from that egg must have fell out of the nest within the garden, the eggshell was cracked, and the baby bird missing—and the mother bird spent a lot of time in the leafage near the back of the garden; with that in mind, I assumed he is alive and well on planet earth, with the other twenty some birds that flock to this garden daily (not all sparrows either), and some sleep the night away within its undergrowth.
There was no back tail for the little sparrow (not yet anyhow), now named, Baby Pajarito, and he was a mischievous little sparrow to say the least, he tried to chase the other entire lot of sparrows out of his space, and out of their space, as if the whole garden was his domain (if indeed he was a he, and it's very likely he is really a she). I think I got a lion for a boarder, I told my wife. Never mind, he was cute, and I continued to leave food out as I do usually everyday for all the birds, and that little bird’s stomach fell to the lower part of its feet, almost dragging its belly. It was hard for him to fly, and the other birds got their share of food likewise, but I think Baby Pajarito got double their portion. But I didn’t pay no heed to it, told my wife, “Don’t give it no attention. Baby Pajarito don’t mean no harm, just likes to eat like most Peruvians do, no limits.”
It’s a pity God can’t make people more like sparrows I told myself, Baby Pajarito got the most friendly little walk, and started coming through those glass doors into my office, and under my table, on the rug and then would leave the same way s/he came in—unaware giants can do harm. He just kept on and on—and now looking at him, I told my wife one day—Baby Pajarito had come in the house and was flying around, I was in the bathroom, and when I came out he tried to make his escape, but went too far to the right, and hit the glass door which is the length of the whole living room, and I think he felt someone was teasing him, because he kept trying to go headfirst into that glass, as if it was going to give way to his mighty force.
“Well,” I told myself, once seeing him helplessly trying to escape, before I got to him, “it might be God’s fault that he didn’t know when to stop and look about for the entrance, the same one he came through…” but just the same, when I got to Baby Pajarito, I pushed him gentle with my hand, to his behind, where his tail-wing was just starting to grow out—thin as paper, and out he went into the opened glass door, and into the garden area, after leaving a little pile of—you got it—muck, behind, evidently he was scared shitless, of the giant that tried to help him (let me also state there is only open sky to our garden so they are free to come and go as they please, and they often do flow over to the park across the street, a wild thing should not be caged I do believe; if you do, you simply kill it little by little, if indeed they have to way of devising suicide).
On another occasion, he flew into the house when I was trying to edit some short stories I had written, and flapped his wings next to my right ear, nearly touching it—wanting attention I suppose, and hurriedly flew back out through the entrance of the opened glass doors.


Poème of the:
The Fat Little Sparrow

He slides down a big leaf, as if on a sled
And, as if on a slippery slab of ice
In the warm, warm summer heat of the sun,
To a nearby branch—of some nearby foliage
In this Little House Garden we have
Here in Lima, Peru—: this little fat Sparrow
Who was born here not long ago?
With no feathers for a tail,
Who eats from morning to noon?
And chases all the other new born sparrows
Away, from the likes of his food, like a goon!
But he’s learning I see, the ABC’s of life,
The Ugly bird has invaded his niche,
And he’s bigger than him, with a bigger
Beak and he eats more seeds, I see,
And that fat little sparrow is learning,
If only one thing, there are those we call
—bullies!

No: 2669 (4-9-2010)


Over in the garden today beside the house, Baby Pajarito was under a big leaf, and there was a big bug on top of the leaf, he must have seen his shadow, and Pajarito jumped an inch or so up, his wings a half turn over, his head hitting the leaf, exactly where the bug was—a good shot, and the bump, broke the balance of the bug, and the bug flew away—had to fly away he was bumped off the leaf for the most part—I reckon Baby Pajarito didn’t take a liking for the bug, and I sat against the back of my chair in wonderment, I was comfortable there, and it was shady, and I wondered what was next in Baby Pajarito’s life? And there he was eating out of the sack of bird seed I had left on a table, eating all the bird seed he could gobble up spitting out the peel of the seed in the process, he even found a way into the sack and the bird seeds ended up all over the place. And I thought, “By gosh, and by gimmidy, he’s one little monster.”

We put this third birdhouse out on the table yesterday, even put food in it, it’s getting a little cold in Lima now, and I see Baby Pajarito is testing it, he’s walked into it a few times, finding out if it is indeed a comfortable and safe place to be. The reason I put it out there was because after leaving in the morning yesterday to do some work a long ways off from the house, which I seldom leave the house while writing a book, being gone for several hours, upon my return one of the four babies were lying dead by our glass doors. It was a very sad feeling. He came to the glass doors to die which of course he was familiar with, the night was too cold for him (about 70% of small birds never make it through the winters), and they just wouldn’t go into the other two bird houses, and usually I put food out but hadn’t for a few days, and I suppose his system weekend and having imprinted inside of him, us being family, where else would one chose to die!
If this has taught me anything, it has taught me, do not take responsibility—or get involved with anything, if you’re not going to be responsible and pull through: I had misplaced some of my training as a psychologist, until I took a closer view at what was the real problem, not the situation. They were not hunting for food sparrows, or sparrows that needed to hunt for food to stay alive, not these four anyhow; they were sheltered from birth from that drudgery,



No: 608 (3-25-2010)
Dedicated to the Bird and the wife


Lesson Two
(…and part two)


Well, they started making a mess in and on and around the platform of the garden and in the garden and breaking the leaves, making holes in them, sliding down them, and leaving white marks on them, and now I had a job to clean their mess up—I am really talking about the bulky birds, not necessarily the sparrows, perhaps half the twenty birds were sparrows, the other half, larger birds, dominating birds; but the few always mess it up for the many, the majority—how true that is among us humans also.
Well again, it wasn’t too bad, I told myself, and just kept on feeding them, as if it was manna (or food) falling from heaven.
After a few months of doing this daily, they expected me to continue to feed them—which was not my original intentions, now they were all waiting at the glass doors in the morning, some even pecking on it; in addition, some even started fighting over the food, the bigger ones pushing the little ones aside, and even eating the back feathers of the smaller birds, making them clumsy in flight; consequently I stopped feeding them all for a few days, started back up feeding the sparrows on the sly again, then I stopped for a whole week the larger birds came back (unfortunately, that is when the one little sparrow died). Nevertheless, it all made me think, how ungrateful they are. Now they have to go about searching for food and cannot find it—in particular the larger birds. In any case, they were getting a little more humbler as they had gotten quite lazy in searching for food, when it was at their feet, not knowing how nice they had it.
It all makes a person think—doesn’t it, I mean, how ungrateful we all are to God Almighty, I mean, I can’t take this ongoing rudeness, and arrogant attitude of the birds, much less feed them as they prance back and forth in front of me, expecting me to feed them, and yet show no respect, no discipline, no limits to their rude behavior. In addition, the big birds know more than you think they know I have tested them: when I shoo them away trying to feed the little ones, they get the medium size ones to sneak up and get the food for them, and mouth feed them thereafter. I can only say, God has a lot of patience, and I hope he never stops feeding us, or humanity will go steer crazy, and God help us all then—because we are much worse than those birds. What they have done to my garden, is nothing compared to what we have done to His earth.
Note: 4-12-2010

Versión en Español


El Bebé Pajarito
((Bebé Pajarito) (Parte uno de dos))

Por el Dr. Dennis Siluk


A metro y medio de mi mampara de vidrio hay un jardín con follaje alto y denso, la tierra es rica y oscura, y hay una fuentecita para pájaros en el jardín de la casa y arriba un cielo azul y tranquilo—casi todos los días en el verano, es así
algunas plantas crecen hasta dos pisos de alto, y tenemos dos casas para pájaros (uuuups, ahora tres) en el jardín, y comida disponible, y una variedad de pájaros pequeños vuelan de un lado a otro—esto es, van y vienen, y descansan alrededor de esta zona natural y libre—muy similar a un centro vacacional o un Jardín del Edén para pájaros, en esta ciudad llamada Lima, una ciudad de ocho millones de personas y cinco millones de carros, con smog en abundancia, y un río contaminado que corre a través de la ciudad.
Diez años atrás, cuando por primera vez me mudé a esta casa, tuve la idea de plantar un jardín, y ¡verlo crecer! Como consecuencia, he estado cavando y plantando, regando y azadonando en este jardín cerca de diez años ahora, y estoy esperando cavar otros diez años, si de verdad todavía estoy viviendo aquí, y soy capaz de hacerlo. Calculé que haría el jardín habitable para pájaros, sentía esto en mis huesos aquellos largos y calurosos días de verano en Lima. Tenía sentido para mí empezar de cero, y en esos diez años debí haber puesto algunas toneladas de tierra nueva, rica y oscura en el jardincito. Sólo me mantenía avanzando como si un día algo iba a pasar, luego en el verano del 2010, esto pasó; le dije a mi esposa, ya no necesitamos paciencia—los pájaros, los gorriones en particular, han encontrado una casa; y ellos venían uno por uno, y cuando el verano estaba por terminar, habían de quince a veinte pájaros que venían a nuestro jardín con regularidad (cuatro de los pequeños, nacieron en mi jardín, y así se adecuaron a esta área y esperaban que los alimentara, y protegiera, etc. etc.) diariamente—el año anterior a éste ellos habían venido también, pero no en abundancia ni abiertamente, algunos murieron durante los meses de invierno, los gorriones frecuentemente lo hacen, parece que ellos no pueden tolerar tales cambios bruscos de clima, o clima frío en sí.
El Bebé Pajarito había nacido en mi jardín—éste es el último de los cuatro gorriones que nacieron aquí—o eso alego; un día mirando encima del follaje descubrí que la Madre Pajarito había hecho un nido en el que habían dos huevos pequeños de este gorrión de casa (este sería el tercer o cuarto gorrión nacido en nuestro jardín—habían dos huevos, entonces quién fue primero realmente es un misterio—pero el 2009, ya habían nacido dos, y ahora en el 2010, otros dos). Siempre he sido un hombre religioso, toda mi vida lo fui, y siempre he hecho lo mejor que pude, no importa cuánto ignoraba sobre estas pequeñas criaturas de Dios, pero por alguna razón, este jardín, este nido y estos cuatro huevos parecían ser una iglesia, estaba orgulloso de compartir con Dios. Y miraba a la madre de la noche a la mañana, con mi linterna, sentada sobre esos dos últimos huevos, los dos últimos de cuatro. Mientras los pajaritos dentro estaban creciendo en formas de pájaros con vidas reales. Yo sólo no podía retirar mis ojos de aquellos huevos.
“¿Dónde dijiste que estaban esos huevos Dennis?”, preguntó mi esposa Rosa.
“Allá cerca de la escalera de caracol”, dije.
“¿Has tomado interés por ellos Dennis?”, ella preguntó.
“Te aseguro que si”, dije, “Y esto es real”.
Y así por unas cuantas semanas miramos a los huevos, y un día, estuve estremecido de encontrar que el bebé había nacido, y Rosa lo llamaría el Bebé Pajarito (significando, la cría de pájaro), pero un huevo no se había roto, éste permanecería así por pocos días más, y un gorrión nacería, creo que el pájaro infante de ese huevo debió haberse caído del nido al jardín, la cáscara de huevo ahora estaba quebrada y el pajarito no estaba—y la mamá pajarito permanecía bastante tiempo en el follaje cerca de la parte trasera del jardín; con eso en mente, asumí que él estaba vivo y muy bien en el planeta tierra, con los otros veinte y tantos pájaros que volaban en este jardín diariamente (no todos eran gorriones tampoco), y algunos dormían en las noches dentro de la maleza.
El gorrioncito no tenía cola (no todavía de todas formas), ahora se llamaba, Bebé Pajarito, y él era un gorrioncito travieso por decir lo menos, él trataba de espantar al conjunto entero de los otros gorriones fuera de su espacio, y fuera de sus espacios, como si el jardín entero fuera de su dominio (si realmente él era él, o podría ser que realmente era ella). Creo que tenemos a un león por huésped, le dije a mi esposa. No importa, él era lindo, y yo continuaba dejando comida afuera como usualmente lo hacía todos los días para todos los pájaros, y el estómago de ese pajarito llegaba hasta sus patitas, casi arrastraba su barriga. Era difícil para él volar, y los otros pájaros tenían su porción de comida de igual manera, pero creo que el Bebé Pajarito tenía doble porción. Pero no le di importancia a esto, le dije a mi esposa, “no le prestes atención, el bebé pajarito no quiere hacer daño, sólo le gusta comer como la mayoría de peruanos lo hacen, sin límites”.
Es una lástima que la gente no sea como los gorriones, me dije, el Bebé Pajarito tenía el más simpático caminar, y empezó a pasar a través de esa mampara de vidrio dentro de mi oficina, y debajo de mi mesa, encima de la alfombra y luego saldría de la misma forma en que entró—sin darse cuenta que los gigantes pueden causar daño. Él sólo continuaba y continuaba. Un día mirándolo a él, le dije a mi esposa: el Bebé Pajarito ha entrado en la casa y estaba volando alrededor, yo estaba en el baño, y cuando salí él trató de hacer su escape, pero se fue muy a la derecha, y golpeó la puerta de cristal que es el largo entero de la sala, y creo que él pensó que alguien le estaba bromeando, porque continuaba tratando de salir de cabeza contra ese vidrio, como si ésta iba a ceder el paso a su gran fuerza.
“Bien”, me dije, una vez que lo vi a él tratando inútilmente de escapar, antes que llegara a él, “talvez es la culpa de Dios que él no supo cuándo detenerse y mirar por la salida, de la misma forma en que entró…” pero de todas maneras, cuando llegué donde el Bebé Pajarito, lo empujé suavemente con mi mano, por atrás, donde su cola justo estaba empezando a crecer—delgada como un papel, y afuera él fue a través de la puerta de vidrio abierta, y dentro del área del jardín, después de dejar un montón de—ya entendiste—estiércol, detrás; evidentemente él estaba muerto de miedo, del gigante que trató de ayudarlo (déjame explicar también que nuestro jardín es a cielo abierto, por eso ellos son libres de ir y venir cuando gusten, y ellos frecuentemente vuelan hacia el parque que está cruzando la calle; una cosa salvaje no debería ser enjaulada, yo creo; si lo haces, tú simplemente lo matas poco a poco, si de verdad ellos tienen una manera de suicidio concebido).
En otra ocasión, él voló dentro de la casa cuando yo estaba tratando de corregir algunos cuentos que estaba escribiendo, y batió sus alas cerca de mi oído derecho, casi tocándolo—queriendo atención supongo, y rápidamente voló de regreso a través de la entrada de las puertas de vidrio abiertas.


Poema del:
Gorrioncito Gordo

Él se desliza hacia abajo en una hoja grande, como si en un trineo
Y, como si en un bloque resbaloso de hielo
En el calor, en el calor del sol de verano,
A una rama cercana—o a algún follaje cercano
En este jardincito de la casa que tenemos
Aquí en Lima, Perú—: este gorrioncito gordo
Quien nació aquí no hace mucho
Sin plumas en la cola,
Quien come desde la mañana hasta el mediodía
Y espanta a todos los otros gorrioncitos recién nacidos
De su comida, ¡como un tonto!
Pero él está aprendiendo, veo, el ABC de la vida,
El pájaro feo ha invadido su hornacina,
Y éste es más grande que él, con un pico
Más grande y él come más semillas, veo,
Y ese gorrioncito gordo está aprendiendo,
Si hay algo, es que hay esos que llamamos
— ¡bravucones!


Hoy en del jardín, al lado de la casa, el Bebé Pajarito estaba bajo una hoja grande, y había un bicho grande encima de la hoja, él debió haber visto su sombra, saltó una pulgada o algo así, sus alas dieron media vuelta, su cabeza golpeó la hoja, exactamente donde el bicho estaba—era un buen tiro, y el golpe, hizo perder el equilibrio al bicho, y éste voló lejos—tuvo que volar lejos, él había sido arrojado de la hoja—calculo que al Bebé Pajarito no le gustó el bicho; y me recosté en el respaldar de mi asiento en asombro, estaba cómodo allí y me preguntaba qué sería lo siguiente en la vida del Bebé Pajarito. Y allí estaba él comiendo de la bolsa de alpiste que dejé sobre la mesa, comiendo toda la comida de pájaros que pudiera engullir escupiendo la cáscara de la semilla en el proceso, él incluso encontró una forma de entrar en la bolsa de alpiste y las semillas terminaron regadas por todas partes. Y pensé, “¡Cielos! él es un pequeño monstruo”.
Ayer pusimos esta tercera casa de pájaro sobre la mesa, incluso pusimos comida dentro, Lima ahora se está volviendo un poco fría, y veo que el Bebé Pajarito está probándola, él ha entrado en ésta unas cuantas veces, encontrando que de verdad es un lugar cómodo y seguro para estar. La razón por la que puse esta casa afuera es de que ayer en la mañana dejé la casa por unas cuantas horas, casi nunca lo hago mientras escribo un libro, a mi regreso, uno de los cuatro bebés estaba tirado muerto por nuestra puerta de vidrio. Era un sentimiento muy triste. Él había venido a la puerta de vidrio con el que estaba familiarizado, para morir, la noche había sido muy fría para él (cerca del 70% de pájaros pequeños no sobreviven al invierno) y ellos precisamente no pudieron entrar en las otras dos casas, y generalmente pongo comida afuera pero no lo había hecho por unos cuantos días, y supongo que su sistema se había debilitado y habiéndose impreso dentro de él, nosotros como familia, ¡dónde más pudo elegir para morir!
Si esto me ha enseñado algo, es de que, no tomes responsabilidades, o no te involucres con nada, si no vas a ser responsable y salir adelante: Había extraviado algo de mi formación como psicólogo, hasta que miré de cerca a lo que realmente era el problema, no la situación. Ellos no eran gorriones en busca de comida, o gorriones que necesitaban buscar comida para mantenerse vivos, no estos cuatro de todas formas; ellos estaban protegidos desde el nacimiento de ese trabajo.


Lección Dos
(…y parte dos)


Bien, ellos empezaron a hacer un gran desorden encima y alrededor de la plataforma de nuestro jardín y en el mismo jardín, rompiendo las hojas, haciendo huecos en ellas, resbalándose en ellas, y dejando manchas blancas sobre ellas, y ahora tenía un trabajo para limpiar su desorden—realmente estoy hablando de los pájaros corpulentos, no necesariamente de los gorriones, talvez la mitad de los veinte pájaros eran gorriones, la otra mitad, eran pájaros grandes, pájaros dominantes; pero los pocos siempre estropeaban por los muchos, la mayoría—qué cierto es esto entre nosotros los humanos también.
Bien, nuevamente, no era tan malo, me dije, y sólo seguía alimentándolos, como si fuera maná (o comida) cayendo del cielo.
Después de unos meses de hacer esto diariamente, ellos esperaban que continuara alimentándolos—lo que no era mi intención original, ahora todos esperaban en las mañanas por la puerta de vidrio, algunos incluso picoteando ésta; además, algunos incluso empezaron a pelear por la comida, los grandes empujando a los pequeños, e incluso comiéndose la cola de los pequeños gorriones, haciéndolos torpes en su vuelo, consecuentemente dejé de alimentar a todos por unos cuantos días y empecé de nuevo a alimentar a los gorriones a hurtadillas, luego cuando los pájaros grandes volvieron dejé de alimentar a todos por una semana entera (desafortunadamente, es cuando el gorrioncito murió) Sin embargo, todo esto me puso a pensar, qué ingratos eran ellos, cuando lo tenían todo a sus pies, ellos eran arrogantes y un poco ociosos para buscar comida sin saber qué bonito ellos tenían. Ahora ellos tienen que ir a buscar comida y no pueden encontrar—particularmente los pájaros grandes.

Todo esto hace pensar a una persona, ¿cierto?, quiero decir, qué desagradecidos somos todos al Dios Todopoderoso, es decir, no puedo soportar esta grosería continua, y actitud arrogante de los pájaros, mucho menos alimentarlos mientras ellos se menean de atrás para adelante frente a mi, esperando que los alimente, y todavía muestran falta de respeto, no disciplina, no límites a su comportamiento grosero. En adición, los pájaros grandes saben más de lo que tú crees, los he puesto a prueba: Cuando los espanto, tratando de alimentar a los pequeños, ellos hacen que los de tamaño mediano se escabullan y obtengan comida para ellos, y luego los alimenten de boca a boca. Sólo puedo decir, Dios tiene un montón de paciencia, y espero que Él nunca deje de alimentarnos, o la humanidad se volverá loca, y que Dios nos ayude a todos entonces—porque nosotros somos mucho peor que esos pájaros. Lo que ellos han hecho con mi jardín, no es nada comparado con lo que hemos hecho con Su Tierra.

Dedicado a mi esposa y al pajarito.

Neighbors with Lots of Dogs (love for the mutt)

Neighbors with Lots of Dogs


There are two kinds of people I’ve observed since I moved next door to a dog lover who has five-smelly dogs who piss all over the garden and try to bite every passerby as the old lady, takes them across the street for their daily run, and piss. She does this five times a day, their daily runs. And my garden is weltering to nothing; as are a few other folks around here. And when I confront her, she bellows out every cuss word known to the human race.
Let me define her according to the standards of affection for people vs. animals, this will be my standard of course, because what we value, becomes our standard, be it true or not true within a society. By doing this she becomes quite predictable to me, and has been. This is no psychology test, just an observation, but now that I think of it, it can be applied to most folks I know with a number of dogs and sometimes cats, be it women or men. Sure it is a generalization, but a pretty good one, with a moral standard of judgment to be defended by simple contact and observation. My son included, is a lover of a variety of animals, and fits into this Lucy Bell pattern.
Now let’s go back to the lady with the five dogs, as you have noticed, I have nicknamed her, Lucy Bell. I will not get into heavy detail, just surface to surface things, and divide by the standard I’ve already mentioned.
Lucy Bell, can identify with dogs, that is to say, she can place herself, or position herself or somehow jump into the skin of those dogs, whereas she can’t with human beings. By and large, she is very cruel to humans, more so, much more so than dogs. She is what you might call a professional lover of dogs or addict, makes hand made jackets for them, and everything else under the sun. I say again by observation of how she treats her dogs in comparison to how she treats her neighbors, there is a big wide gap here. She is much crueler to her species than to the dog race. And sometimes I wonder just how capable she really is in the cruelty area.
On the other hand, fundamentally speaking, I don’t see this among those folks that identify with human beings, although this group can—in general, can show some association with animals, but cannot jump into their skins, sort of speaking. This is not to say folks who are simple lovers of horses, and cows and dogs and cats. This is to the extreme, I am talking about.
For myself, I can go to a cock fight, and have no qualms about a death of a cock, or a bullfight and again have no doubts and enjoy the event; on the other hand, if a horse gets killed, or even donkey overloaded it bothers me, if for some senseless reason. I have never killed an animal myself, nor intend to. I have admiration for God’s creatures, but let there be no doubt, only within a certain range.

—The Ragged Sparrow

((Winters in Minnesota) (a story of compassion))


In winter in Minnesota the days are short, the season long, and everything turns to a light and sometimes dark gray; snow hides everything, like a giant white umbrella. The Countryside, even the city produces profound feelings of disenchantment, haunted by the ragged looking sparrows (and some squirrels); occasionally, the sun flutters through the desolate sky and its clouds, and inside the winds resides gloom, you squint your eyes after a while in the endless white on white—snow.
If you have braved the season and youth is on your side, it will thereafter be kind to you, in that, something majestic will come out of it all; on the other hand if you are old, the thoughts of another oncoming winter can be hand clinching, it not leg trembling and mouth stuttering, but you know you have accomplished something great, and with harsh gestures, a fist at mother nature, you show it. Yet by and by you know it will reappear, and through those three following new seasons, imagery of the old produces stress.
Even Mother Nature knows for the old man, a new life will demand a new triumph, once winter starts, to make it to April, a spark will do, a muster seed perhaps, a little miracle, to refresh the spirit: something, anything.


The old man, Mr. Beck, watches the sparrows, and occasionally the squirrels (if indeed he can fined a white squirrel, it will be to his fancy, and he will have to look closer to believe it is not just his imagination), he watches also, dogs and cats, but mostly he is intrigued with the ragged sparrows. Thus, he gazes at them from his bedroom window, in bed often, the ragged haunting looking gray bodied sparrows, so little and dainty, but enduring, gazes at them as they go to and fro.
To him, Mr. Beck, they are the champions of non-defeat. He watches each detail of the birds, and is really their only noticeable audience, all other neighbors, especially the older ones are somewhere huddled around their furnaces in their homes, impressionless, unaware of the sparrows untiringly almost magical endurance of the frigidly cold and long-term winter at hand.
But there is one neighbor, to the left of him (or west), when possible watches him open-mouth, watching the sparrows; wondering at Mr. Beck’s sanity, because of his so called regularity in this sport like atmosphere, his devotion throughout the winter, his key importance he puts on the ragged looking sparrows, it is Mrs. Stanly (widow), she’s sixty-three years old (it is 1960, Mr. beck, he is seventy-eight.)


A Little Sparrow

The old man had handed in his railroad badge, took off his watch they gave him for over twenty years of service, put it into the top drawer—near his bed, forgot it was there, he had put it there, and left it there going on thirteen-years now, since his retirement. He, like his neighbor, Mrs. Stanley, is a widower, on pension, collecting money due him, pay his utilities on time, and keeps mostly to himself, never missed a day of work, unless he was really sick. He was willing! Intelligent! Quiet and honest! And most of all, grateful he had reached the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

A little sparrow—somewhat ugly, ragged looking that is, inexpressibly, was laying in the snow by a large oak tree, outside his bedroom window (his house being on an embankment with the tree, Cayuga Street below the embankment).
Looking at it, ‘Lovely and sad,’ he thought, but to no end it looked in misery, if not potentially dead. Then he looked closer—it had evidently fallen from the tree onto the soft cold white snow—he saw a spark of life in it, there was a general death twist to its wing, a movement, more by automatic impulse, the nerves reacting like an electric light blinking, ready to go out.

The old man stared at it, it was numbing, and the morning was getting onto forenoon. There was a passionate quality about his peering, and every time the old man saw the wing move, he smiled, kind of a stress reaction, a smile you do, not because you are happy, but because you need to endure the moment without panic.
“Heaven help it,” he murmured, talking to himself, then adding, “Vitality is born early in such creatures and also taken away quickly under such circumstances, such a little body, how can it endure the elements, —I bet it has not more than a few sparks left…!”
All he murmured would have been utterly evident to any onlooker, thus the old man eagerly—with his thin frame and glaring eyes—pulled off his white linens, and tossed to the side his two thick blankets, and with a startling and revenant grimace, kept his eye on the sparrow as he put on his robe, and slippers, “Well, it’s certainly a nice day,” he muttered (the suns ultraviolet rays were piercing through the clouds, yet it was below zero).

His eyes now in transit, falling downward for a moment, in a posture of emotional thought, then his smile again became radiant, as if he had said a prayer, and his face showed no artificial pretence, he had a mission, his heart pumped new blood through its veins, and his face got rosy, the dim paleness of winter’s dread left.
He looked dearly and closely at the ragged sparrow, its wings flapped once more, he said, tying his robe, with a rope of sorts, “I’m not sure what were suppose to do now (talking to the sparrow through the window, across the porch, all the way to the big tree, knowing if he did nothing, the little ragged sparrow would die, that was for certain, if indeed it was not dead yet, it seemed to him the bird was aware of his activity, his willingness to do something to help it).


From the Porch

Again he noticed a single movement from a sole wing, on the little ragged sparrow, an indication for him, there was still time (a shot, spurt of energy still left in it), but perhaps little hope.
Now he went out to his cold screened-in porch, and could see the little bird closer, the window had not blocked the sparrow from his sight, the porch being to its side, yet it was a closer distance by several feet to the tree, now, he could and was peering right over the sparrow, perhaps three feet.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he told the sparrow—if indeed the sparrow could read lips, it would have gotten a little more hope I’m sure—“Just stay perfectly still, I’ll fix everything up,” he added to his monologue.
The sparrow now moved its wing one more time, and then it dropped it, as if it was too heavy to hold, for even that millisecond it had before. At that point the old man knew it was curtains, the show was over, he was to slow, too late, too old, for that was the death signal, and he knew death had no favorites, and it did not wait, and that it had a continuing digesting stomach, it was always hungry, and wanted to be feed.

Suddenly, involuntary, almost in a state of disassociation, he opened the screen-door, made a short abrupt leap into the cold, cold snow, quickly and gently he grabbed the sparrow and away he went back into the house, with a growing preposterous smile— (as if he had eaten a chocolate covered cherry).
He took the sparrow and laid it down in front of a large space heater in the living room inside of one of his soft slippers, so the heat would not scorch it, and just starred at the ragged bird, as he sat in a nearby sofa chair, giving it an ominous silent look, said, “There isn’t anybody here except me,” he was talking to the sparrow, his hands in the prayer mode…


The Wing

He looked at the sparrow one last time, as if he was worn out himself, and ready to fall to sleep from the stress, and enduring ordeal—a mental strain, anxiety, then he thought he saw a wing move, said to himself out loud, “It must be a winter dream, they vary…,” then looked closer. He took off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, put them back on, leaned over to touch the sparrow, its body no loner stiff, “A precarious adventure we are having little one,” he said, “time to wake up!” A tear came from his right eye, as the bird wobbled about inside the slipper, its feet stretched out, and its wings helped it get back onto them somewhat steadily, and it fell over the slipper, onto the floor. Now the wings were both operational, and it stumbled over to the old man, and with a last spurt of energy, it lay down on his bare foot, to rest, and it and the old man, took a nap, after their triumph.



Note: written 11-18-2008, after lunch at the café, La Mia Mamma, Huancayo, Peru. Inspired by actual events, although in a different realm, during the author’s twenties … (which was with a fish brought back to life after frozen from the Minnesota cold, a small fish for an aquarium brought home frozen, after being left in a car.)

Two Pigeons Kissing (Dos Pichones Besándose)

English Version


Two Pigeons Kissing

Two pigeons in the morning—
November sun
sitting on a tree-branch,
kissing outside my window…
(as if no one’s around);
looking here and there!
The blue-headed one, picking
at its wings….

(I’m thinking, staring—:
can life be so simple?)

No: 2516 (11-15-2008), written in:
El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru (a tribute to Juan Parra del Riego)



Spanish Version


Dos Pichones Besándose

¡Dos pichones en la mañana—
en el sol de noviembre
sentados en una rama del árbol,
están besándose afuera de mi ventana…
(como si nadie estuviera alrededor);
mirando aquí y allá!
El de la cabeza azul, picoteándose
sus alas…

(Mirando fijamente, estoy pensando—:
¿Puede la vida ser tan simple?)

Nro. 2516 (15-Noviembre-2008), escrito en:
El Tambo, Huancayo, Perú (un homenaje a Juan Parra del Riego)