brown birds

I've been watching the young Starlings, the color of hot, dull dirt, desperately scrambling alongside their parents, squawking aggresively, beak open, neck wrenched forward. In the parking lot of a carwash, two youngsters hounded their mother for crumbs, though they stood nearly as tall as she. The two screeched at their mother, who glistened in the summer heat with all her galaxies lit, until she picked crumbs off the filthy Caton Avenue asphalt with her yellow beak, placing them quickly and delicately into their mouths.

What feathery mirrors these birds are. As for the Superb Starlings, glazed in blue, black and rust, you only see them at the Aviary.