I woke from my cat nap on the orange couch to the sound of hoodlums outside.
There are a number of hoodlums in our neighborhood. They are the reason the top of our street is littered with glass, bricks, rocks, and chalk drawings. They hang out at the skate park near the convenient store, earning it the moniker “Delinquent Academy”. The argument that their parents do not exist is plausible. There is no physical evidence of parents except for the living, breathing, mini-monsters running around.
It seems unlikely that someone who adores children the way I do would have such a low opinion of a particular gaggle. Kids here make me a little crazy. It is so great that they are outside running around instead of inside playing video games. When I hear a loud expletive uttered at my back door though, I wish for a measure of parental presence for sure.
This afternoon, to my yet-unopened eyes, it seemed like some kids were sneaking around nearby and throwing gravel at my house. I lay there listening, trying to analyze the situation. The sounds were tremendously regular. The noise of the hoodlums was surprisingly high pitched. I opened my eyes and jumped off the couch. It was not children in my yard! It was birds!
A flock of birds, flying hoodlums, had descended upon the huge oak tree in the back yard and proceeded to loosen and drop hundreds of acorns. The sound of the acorns hitting the ground and the roof and the air conditioning unit was impressive. The sound of the birds in the branches squeaking and squawking was comical. Put together, they gave this slightly suspicious, as yet childless, neighbor the impression of misbehaving children.
Instead I found a true celebration of Autumn in the leaves of our tree.
And I laughed.