Birds. They’re everywhere. It’s almost Spring. They fly. They flock. They chirp and sing. They eat insects and worms. And make nests of things. Hair. Twigs. String. Even pieces of plastic. And dog fur. Birds flit through our lives. Through our literature. And entertainment. Tweetie Bird. The Roadrunner (and Coyote). Hitchock’s The Birds. The Sandpiper. The Albatross. The Raven. Nevermore. Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. He’s got bird le ...