Morning Songs

Now that I'm closer to attaining true hobo status--a title reserved only for the most hard-scrabbled, single, homeless men--I feel compelled to share this little nugget of a tale about being shat upon--or rather, nearly shat upon.

So, as stated in my previous entry, I'm sleeping under the stars, and waking with the rising sun, in concert with all of God's creatures and all of that happy horse hooey.

Well, one thing about God's creatures is that they're sometimes lacking in manners. Birds in particular. Take this morning for instance. My tent is a one person tent reminiscent of a coffin with a little extra face room. So, my face is maybe six inches from the tent roof. And that's where the birds like to perch when they first wake up and are going for their morning fare. As you might imagine, when a bird lands six inches from your face and screams its favorite morning song when you're fast asleep, why, then you'll know what a proper alarm clock is. But when that alarm clock comes within an inch to shitting on your face, why, then you'll know the meaning of a hobo with a shit eatin' grin.

photo by This Person