This morning as I walked to my car I saw, not ten feet in front of my face, an adult downy woodpecker feeding its young. The young bird, fat and fluffy and entirely trusting, sat on the bar of the birdfeeder with its mouth hanging open for more while my mouth was hanging open for awe, if awe can properly describe what one feels while watching a wild creature regurgitate into another wild creature's gullet.
I felt a bit like regurgitating myself, as I always do when a medical professional promises "You won't feel a thing. Just a little discomfort. Maybe just a slight pinch and some burning afterward. Trust me." This morning I trusted my dentist to remove an annoying redundant flap of flesh from my upper lip. I've lived with this thing all my life without ever once being told it should be removed, but my dentist finally persuaded me to get rid of it. "It's probably harmless," he said, "But every time you smile it looks like a nipple hanging from your upper lip." I couldn't get this image out of my mind and so away it went, the fibroid thing with the impressive Latin name I can't seem to recall right now, whisked away with the aid of a laser that felt like hundreds of tiny birds pecking hungrily at my lip. I'd like to take my new smile for a test drive but it's a bit tender at the moment. Just a little discomfort. A slight pinch with some burning afterward. Nothing to worry about. Trust me.
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