Buoyed by birds

      Zoos make me sad.  There's no other way to say it. I'm not coming from a PETA, liberation, pity-the-captive-animals point of view. I'm not unhappy that zoos exist — at this point they have an important role in guaranteeing the future of species that might not always be found in the wild.
     I mean, just the experience of going to a zoo. We had a fun meal at North Pond, then walked south to Lincoln Park Zoo. 

     Boom, a nameless melancholy. So many people, so few animals. And the ones that are there are hiding, often. Best zookeeping practice demands that animals be allowed to escape the pressure of our prying eyes — zoos actually plant hedges and erect barriers — and more often than not the animals prefer privacy. It's like going to visit your neighbors only to have them hide inside their house and not answer the bell.
     Part might be nostalgia. For almost five years we visited the zoo pushing what I called "The bus" — a big double stroller holding the two boys. Every animal was a joyous discovery. So seeing the zoo, boyless, well, it's like going to Chuck E. Cheese with your wife, the two of you, for the pizza. Or so I imagine, having never done such a thing.
     The lions were beautiful. But like so much, they kept reminding us what aren't there — what goes with lions? Right, tigers. Wrong — gone, since 2016. At least there were bears, polar bears. Oh my.
     The rhino was sufficiently prehistoric. Like seeing a dinosaur. But the rhino also lives in what used to be the elephant area. Gone for 20 years now.  I'm sure it leads for happier, more productive lives for some herd of elephants, somewhere, enjoying a better place than the North Side of Chicago. But it blows for visitors. Nothing sets your spirits right like an elephant.
     And the gorillas. It was naptime when we went, and they were sprawled, listless, their eyes dull. The enclosures seem small. Hard not to pity them, while at the same time relating to their predicament. As these days of Trump 2.0 grind on, with no end in sight, it's difficult not to get a little glassy-eyes ourselves. How did we end up here? How could we have been so careless as to let ourselves be lured into that trap? By banana? As helpless now to alter our fate as animals in a zoo.
     "Yeah tell me about it, buddy," I want to say. "Not quite the rich pageant we were promised."
     We were about to drift disheartened out of the place, and begin our miserable crawl back to the suburban hellscape from whence we came, when I had an idea.
    "Let's see the birds," I said. 

Green Broadbill

     We made a beeline over, encountering a massive polar bear, pacing back and forth, along with a sign telling visitors not to be alarmed by the pacing. Perfectly natural. 

     Sure it is.
     The birds were a different story. We saw a bright Green Broadbill and a Tawny Frogmouth that looks like an owl. A pair of Luzon Bleeding Heart doves who immediately started to form what Othello called "the beast with two backs" — though in this case it as more a two-tier dove pile — the moment I looked at them. 
     The main bird exhibit doesn't have bars, and you can watch the birds at close range, including a pair of Inca Terns. I think it helps that the birds are relatively small, compared to apes. They have more room to roam. And there are so many different kinds.
     "I don't know what those birders are making such a big fuss about," I said. "Look at all the species of birds we're spotting, right here in Lincoln Park."

Nicobar pigeon