Hammerkop Inside the flight cage children creep closer, run their hands over the rail you scuttle across, reach out sticky fingers to pet your mice-brown feathers. Your wings flicker and stretch. You strut along the slivered rail, your hammer-head bobbing back and forth, not as warning, but, it seems, almost pompously. Small boys tap your back. Small girls flutter their fingers over the tips of your wings.
Mothers snap photos.
Other birds flock in circles over our heads, scolding intruders. You hop onto a tilted sign, try for balance. Your claws scratch at bird names, at pink maps of Africa. The children are ushered on to view polar bears, cheetahs, the condor in its solitary display. Still you teeter on the sign, opening and shutting your wings, small invitations.