I’m watching birds at all hours now. I can see thirty, fifty birds a week, sometimes even more if I don’t put it all in my journal. All the animals come out in the morning: blue jays, warblers, northern cardinals, hawks, sparrows, ruddy ducks. Someday, a real rain will come down and refract the sun into a rainbow backdrop for idyllic wildlife photography.
I go all over. I watch birds in Central Park, Lookout Hill, the Vale of Cashmere, the Swan Boat Pond, the Ramble. Some people don’t count pigeons in their birding journals, but it don’t make no difference to me, don’t make no difference to me.
This park here is like an open sewer. You know, it’s full of filth and scum. Whoever becomes the Audubon Society president should just really clean it up, you know what I mean? I get headaches. My eyes start to burn from the muted colors of ground-bound animals. Raccoons, rats, possums, police horses. It’s like I think that the Audubon Society president should clean up this whole mess here. He should flush it down the fuckin’ toilet.