Black bird, black and white cat, I'm still angry

I remember the first time I saw a red winged blackbird - summer of 64.  It was the year we'd moved from he Bronx to the Island.  It's not really possible for me to lay out how and why the bird made such an impression on me, but for these next 44 years, just about every time I've seen another, I've made a mental note - there's a red winged blackbrird.  

Then there were the years of decline (in which we may well still be, for all I know) and of course the last 28 years of straight urban living.  Not many red winged blackbirds.  Even when I went to beach where I'd always seen them in the dunes... no Daddy yet.

Then, Saturday before last, Lori and I were in Prospect Park, doing close to nothing, and there it was.  Pretty as a picture.  Flying just the way it used to with that now and then dip.  RWBB!  I said to Lori, There's a red winged blackbird, blah blah blah blah blah.  The likelihood that I'd never gotten into this at any time of the last 24 years of talking is pretty slim, but, honest, in the moment, I didn't remember.  Still don't.

Then, the next day, Sunday, there I was, doing even less, half asleep on the bench in the back yard under the crabapple just close to popping pink, and I heard a scuffling up on the fence behind me and I opened my eyes and turned and there it was, that furkin black and white scruffbag snaggling along with a dead read winged blackbird in it's mouth, red epaulet just outside the beasts jaw.  I was up in a flash cursing at beast: Eff you!  Eff you you effin eff!  I mean, I lost it.

I have never liked that cat.  I do not wish it well.