Killing the Mockingbirds

If it wasn't a sin, I'd cheerfully kill the mockingbirds. For all of June they've tyrannized our innocent cats: Willie, our old tabby, who doesn't even have front claws, and Callie, our calico, who's scared if her whiskers twitch. The cats can't rest in the shade of their own porch without harassment. I stepped outside at sunrise, the sky on fire behind the mimosa tree, to admire a shimmering spider's web. Callie ran up the tree and stood eight feet up, in the cleft where the trunk branches, godlike in her majesty. One of the pernicious mockingbirds swooped, squawked and dive-bombed Callie home. Chased by a bird, a cat can’t keep her self-respect, and she was already neurotic. The pair of mockingbirds must have a nest to protect, and, if they aren’t just xenophobic, I admire their guts. The birds teach an indeterminate lesson in passion or in pugnacity. I don't know either, about the army of chittering swifts in our chimney.