Love in a mass extinction

Ah, the sweet slow death of climate change. I enjoyed a leisurely six-mile bike ride today, in the scant hours of sunlight available so close to the winter solstice. It felt like early May, or late September. That is, it felt good, but it felt all wrong. I love to bike, but I'm not one of those hardy, all-weather-biking souls. As soon as the air gets nippy, I hang up my bike for the season. But I've been taking it out fairly often this "winter." It's a bad sign. A highly enjoyable symptom of impending doom.

There were five swans on the pond. (Lower Millpond is its name on the map, though I've never known anyone to call it by any particular name. Yes, "Millpond," one word.) There should be seven swans, but the babies are in fact nearly full-grown. A couple of them could have gone off already, or may simply have been swimming elsewhere. I am not sure, but I think the mom and dad lost one early this year, when they were still little. I had thought I'd counted six cygnets, but then there were just five. Last year, their nest got flooded early on, so they had none. The pair didn't hang around after that - I'm not sure where they went that season. The year before that, they had six young, all of which grew to adulthood and presumably now have their own mates on their own ponds.

I've also noticed some smaller white birds floating around and perching on posts of an old pedestrian bridge that used to cross the pond. (I've heard that this bridge is going to be rebuilt. That'll be very cool, and might almost balance the coming demise of Tasty Top.) I think they may be seagulls, but that seems strange to me. I've never seen them before this week. They're bit small for gulls, and quiet for gulls as well. They aren't ducks, as far as I can make out. Maybe they're some southern bird, migrating north to escape the unseasonable heat.

Continuing the bird theme, it so happens my partner and I watched "The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill" this morning. (We are celebrating our vacation by decadently watching videos in the mornings.) I'm so glad that Mark Bittman, the man who builds his life around the parrots, finds love. So much of the film seemed to be about needing that friend or mate who will groom your pin feathers for you. Paralleling the story of an unmated parrot that was in his care for a time, Mark Bittman explains to the filmmaker that he decided long ago not to cut his pony tail until he found a girlfriend. By the length of his ponytail the viewer can measure the heart-rending duration of his loneliness. At the film's end, the pony tail comes off. He and the filmmaker have, as she says, "become a pair." And that painful pin feather can at last be removed.

We will be in San Francisco later this week, and we'll look for the parrots.