SOUTHERN EXPOSURE: BIRDS AND FEATHERED DINOSAURS ARE WAITING TO RULE AGAIN

There is a theory going around that birds evolved from dinosaurs. It's hard to believe that a cute little sparrow or a precocious robin could be swimming in the same gene pool as the velociraptor from "Jurassic Park."

It's hard to believe until nesting season comes along.

In Steven Spielberg's famous movie, velociraptors are single-minded death deliverers who hunt in packs and have a gleam of intensity in their eyes. Most accounts from paleontologists don't discount this too heartily.

What they do is kill, kill, kill. They're malicious and quick, clever and determined. They are nothing like -- birds.

Or are they?

There is a bird that lives in a tree directly across from my front door. He's small, but don't let that fool you -- he's a killer! His plumage is jet black, like a ninja. Sparkling in the depths of his soulless black eyes is a murderous light.

He perches over the walkway from the door to the street. Or, just to throw me off, he'll wait on the roof of the house I live in. There he sits like a miniature Lee Harvey Oswald glaring out of the book depository, waiting to strike.

Every morning when I leave my house I have to go past this tree. Somewhere in the foliage is this little mugger's nest and he, or she, is extremely protective.

I'm not very threatening in the morning, sipping a Coke and wiping the sleep out of my eyes; but somehow this bird has it in mind that I'm after eggs for breakfast. A half-dozen times already this thing has swooped down from its perch and raked my shoulder as I walk past the tree. It happens so fast that it takes me a minute to register what just happened. All I feel is a slight rush of air and the brush of feather and talon.

Then I look around in bewilderment, searching for a definitive glance at this black streak. He's not hard to find. He doesn't try to conceal himself and he doesn't look away when I find him.

He simply stares down at me with one eye cocked in my direction. Sometimes he lifts a claw to his beak and nibbles off a tiny bit of cotton that was snagged in his fly-by assault.

If I turn away he sometimes makes another pass just to try and startle me again. So I'll go walking down the street for maybe a block, jumping around suddenly to try and catch him in the act. It looks pretty silly.

One time I did turn just as he was streaking down from the roof of my building. Wings folded back, beak jutting arrogantly, he was coming right at me when he suddenly noticed that I was waiting for him.

He wasn't so cocky then. He gave a little surprised squawk and pulled out of the dive with a frenzied flap of wings.

He sat up in his tree hurling little birdy insults at me as I got into my car and left, but he did stay in the tree.

I should be used to aggressive birds. Seagulls in the part of Florida where I grew up were daring food snatchers. A hot dog held slightly aloft or a pause in the transport of a potato chip to the lips was all a gull needed to make his move. Like magic that chip or dog would just disappear with just a whisper of feathered movement to reveal the thief.

Children were especially susceptible to this. Seagulls would hover around children as they waddled around the surf with a corner of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich clutched in one grubby hand.

Then, as a special thank you, the birds would use you as a target the next time they needed to relieve themselves in flight.

Birds may have lost their ferocious roars and menacing size to harmless chirps and disarming cuteness. But deep inside every sparrow is a tyrannosaurus rex waiting to shed its mask of feathers and wreck havoc on the world it once dominated.

Next time you see a pigeon watching you, or a robin hopping ever closer to where you're sitting, be prepared -- he just might forget what he has become.

David Angier is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.