Mating

Birds in springtime remind me of being seventeen.
The females don't admit to paying any attention to the males. They stroll nonchallantly through the backyard, stoppping occasionally to peck at a bug.
But the males strut.Their wings outstretched they highstep in front of their paramours. "Look at me". (the females don't look) "I'm so cool and studly." They puff out their chests till it looks like they'll explode.
Then the boys take off into the blue, circle a bit, and land, by the strangest of coinsidences, right in front of their bored-looking girlfriends.
This courtship rite gets repeated over and over. She'll never notice him. He's doomed. He'll die alone, a frustrated shell of a pidgeon. That's what it looks like.
And then and then, and then.
They fly off in a chirp, chase each other through the maple branches, and finally land in the plum tree. She's still and he grabs his moment. Wings and feathers flutter, a quick twitter and cheep, and it's all over.
There will be fledglings this year.
Not so different from human teenagers.