A Bird's-Eye View

A Bird's-Eye View

A Poem

by Joey Raines

I kicked back in my car, just chillin’ out,

Feet on the dash, no stress, no doubt.

Sunroof open, all the way wide,

Just me and the sky on a peaceful ride.

The clouds were wavy, the breeze was cool,

The birds were out and playing the fool.

No birds on the lines, no birds in a tree,

Just flippy-flappy floaters flyin’ over me.

They twirled and they looped, they zipped all around,

Like feathered acrobats with zero ground.

I smiled so big, felt light as air,

My head leaned back without a care.

The hum of the day was soft and sweet,

Wind in my hair and sun on my seat.

My eyes got droopy, my mind went numb,

I was humming a tune and tapping my thumb.

A gentle escape, not a care in the world,

Peace wrapped around me, soft and unfurled.

“Best. Day. Ever,” I said real slow,

When suddenly I felt a... plop from below?

Wait. No. Above. That wasn’t a drop.

That was... a splatter. A splash. A flop.

A warm little smack with suspicious weight

Right on my forehead. I sealed my fate.

I froze like a statue, wide-eyed and stiff,

Sniffed the air and caught a whiff.

No mistakin’ what just came through.

That wasn’t a blessing. That was bird doo-doo.

The birds above? Still flappin’ with glee.

Laughin’, I swear, while lookin’ at me.

One gave a wink. One gave a smirk.

These feathered freaks are certified jerks.

I wiped my brow and glared at the sky,

Like, “Really? Right here? Did I deserve that? Why?”

One bird flapped sideways, did a lazy spin—

Mocking me gently with a beaky grin.

And that’s when I knew, deep in my gut,

This wasn’t just a chance. It was a setup.

They had a plan. They had a code.

A poop-based prank in aerial mode.

Somewhere up high, in a nest on a pole,

They’re laughing it up while on patrol.

“Got another one!” I imagine they cheer,

“Sunroof open? Let’s volunteer!”

Now every time I crack that glass,

I peek up quickly before I relax.

I don’t trust birds, not even a bit.

They’ve got sharp eyes and perfect...

...timing.

They train in flocks, they practice all day,

Waiting for drivers who roll their way.

And when they spot one, they circle in tight,

Swoop in low and line up the flight.

Their tiny bird brains full of evil delight,

They go full stealth mode, out of plain sight.

Then just when you lean back, lost in the sky—

SPLAT. They strike. And you don’t know why.

I try not to take it personally now.

I clean off my face and furrow my brow.

I remind myself, “It’s just how it goes.”

But still I flinch when the cool wind blows.

It’s not just the mess. It’s the audacity.

Like bird poop was made with accuracy.

A gift from the sky, with perfect grace—

Not a single drop... out of place.

So here’s my advice to all who ride,

With sunroofs cracked and seats leaned wide—

Enjoy the sky, enjoy the view,

But don’t forget what birds can do.

They may look sweet, all feathers and flight,

But trust me, pal, they poop mid-flight.

And if you give them just one chance...

They’ll paint your face. Not your pants.

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