Bang

Gooey, yellow-green excrement rained like Seussian oobleck.

Approximately six dozen starlings bombed me from their locust tree perches each time I refilled the birdbath in my backyard yesterday. Within five minutes, the bath would be as dry as Carl Peterson’s wit.

I feed birds year-round, and lately I’ve managed to extend the stay of a few relatively rare migratory birds, including a stunning red-headed woodpecker. These rapacious, ugly starlings are spoiling my efforts. Only a odd gaggle of male robins, along with a couple of mean squirrels that I haven’t managed to eradicate yet, dared challenge the starling’s numbers yesterday.

I wonder if Wal-Mart sells silencers for shotguns.