dive bombed

There are birds making nests in the rafters of our building at work. They have chosen the route to the bathroom as their primary stomping ground, and have taken to swooping down on the unwary (or wary) traveler. I'm not sure what they are; I'm too busy ducking and cringing and flinching. My love of small birds is well known, and certainly my own little circle of hell would be full of the flitting creatures. Actually, I feel a little sad for them. For all my bobbing and weaving, someone else will be the one to complain, and the nests will be dismantled by building management. Alas.

My ipod recently decided to stop playing the lyrics of the music I have stored there. This is vexing. I walk a lot throughout the city, and my headphones play constant companion on these excursions. So, recently, given the weird underwater sounds my ipod has been playing, I have been leaving it on my desk, going out and listening to outside sounds when walking. What have I heard? A man walking on the street in tap shoes (tap shoes!). A woman saying farewell effusively to another in Polish. In the Music Concourse, a man gestured wildly while talking on the phone in an Italian accent about he wife. She, apparently, is beautiful. A (fragile) elderly couple, in the corner store I frequent, contemplating the carrying of their groceries to their car. They said:

Elderly Man: Would you like me to to carry this to the car and come back for the rest and you?
Elderly woman: No. No. We will go slowly together.

Yesterday, I walked 16 miles (more or less) in circles, looking for rare plants.

A common thread? Dive bombed.