Parakeets over San Francisco

Terraced above the city like parakeets on a massive snake-like perch,characters in this section of Dolores Park is always so full of personality and intrigue. Just now there are two men off to my left mysteriously sitting in the growing afternoon shade. They are talking about their budding love interests of the previous week. They speak with excitement and exasperation as if nobody else is around. This sort of conversation is perhaps the most common topic among this cadre.

Two guys, a couple I assume, just sat in front of them. As they slowly unpack their food, I feel and hear my stomach slowly grumble. Apparently Wispa crackers and peanut butter did not suffice for a full lunch. The J-train rolls by. Their voices are soft. Oh, how I wished I had better ears.

Giving up on this duo, my attention drifts to the loudest voice among these birds. Two rather large acquaintances off to my left. Their earlier conversation focused on getting laid off, going to the Obama inauguration, and Wells Fargo web analytics. Though very clear and annunciation (apparently one of them is in the gay mens choir), I don't find their conversation too captivating. Why must he have such a punctuating decibel?

In front of me, slightly to my left sits a silent reader like myself. His hair is long, black and unkempt. He must be close to forty because he is going gray above the ears. More than anything he reminds me of the men in the 70s band, America. How my father loves that band. He would listen to the LPs for days on end.

Ouch, he just looked back with the most annoyed and slightly horrified look. He really carries himself more like Anthony Kiedis. Somehow, my daydreaming of him singing "Sister Golden Hair Surprise" seems in vain.

Now the two soft-talkers behind me starts to speak up. Of curse, they are talking about shopping for something. One of them wants to buy a new coat with a fur hood from Saks Fifth Avenue. May I remind you this is during a 75 degree afternoon in San Francisco. Oh, please stifle yourself a bit you two. They oblige as if responding to my telepathic demand.

As the shopping conversation dissipates, a beautiful woman perches herself over to my right. She gently strokes her left earring, and then checks her PDA device, seemingly in one fell swoop.

Perhaps she is waiting for someone. No she is definitely a bird on a wire. Her face is so lonely. She misses her lover whoever her (or she) is. She has that ambivalent Scarlett Johanssen look on her face. So carefree, yet so fragile. I see this look on so many young women as of late. Their eyes are constantly searching, and they look bewildered and somewhat fatigued by what they are seeing.

She checks her PDA almost non-stop, and after each check, she throws the innocent device into her bag, then pulls it back out again. This cycle repeats itself a couple of times over the next ten minutes. Finally, she takes a breath and holds the Blackberry in her palm. She clutches it. It is her only connection to him, and it is still in her control. She has the power, but she will not exert it. She looks very afraid.

Finally, defeated, she tosses it back into the bag. This time it is pushed deep into the bottom of her satchel. She pulls out a book and puts on a pair of Jackie O sunglasses. How despondent she seems. Today's quest for love and intimacy is lost. Her book becomes a Berlin Wall between her and the outside world.

The soft-talkers are now cackling loudly. They are immersed in meaningless text-messages. Next to them, a tall man is putting his shirt back on. I see his silhouette in front of me, but as I look back the 3:30 sun shoots out at me and all of my fellow birds. The silhouette is joined by so many. At all points on my compass people now leave as the sun's rays pull back behind Twin Peaks.

A gently chilling wind lifts my wings and pushes me off my perch. I bid adieu to my fellow fair-feathered friends.