I've a friend who claims he can speak bird. To his credit, I've heard him do it, though none of the surrounding birds seems to understand him, but I attributed that to a difference in dialect.
Walking through Rundle Park on a Saturday morning, along a track marked for cyclists, I took particular note of the squeaks and chirps and squawks of the birds, hidden in their treetop homes, and though I've never claimed to speak the language, I tried to decipher their sounds and identify the breeds of bird that made them. Then my ears were made privy to the most peculiar call: a sort of grinding squeal that seemed to represent exertion and it appeared to be rapidly approaching me from behind.
I whipped my head to my left to catch a glimpse of my assailant. I saw the flash of the bicycle just in time to avoid being struck down by it. The sound hadn't been a bird at all, but a manmade instrument of transportation. The next call, however, I understood perfectly and, additionally, was able to identify the type of bird that made it.
'Get off the f-king bike track!'
And angry chick.
Mario tip: watch out for cyclists. They may not watch out for you. read more