It was that bird with the food in its mouth. Beak. Whatever.
7:18 AM and I’m staring out the window in boxer shorts and a T-shirt that reads “STAR WARS” in faded, yellow letters. Seconds earlier I yelled, “Let’s go, it’s seven eighteen!” to my son who should be getting dressed for school in the next room. By June 7th, he should just know to get dressed. By June 7th, I’m light-years beyond sick of prompting him to get dressed. As I reach for the jeans on the floor — worn yesterday but that’s nothing a blast of Febreeze can’t fix — I see it.
The bird. Outside. Standing on the roof of my shed. Small, grey and tremendously, almost aggressively ordinary. He (or she, who knows) is holding what for him (or her, who knows) is a massive piece of food in his beak. It would be the equivalent of your or I holding a calzone between our teeth.
The bird is in no rush. He’s just looking around, surveying the land from the gable of my 1970’s tool shed, content that he’s got a day’s worth of grub locked down by 7:18 AM. Everything is honkey-dorey. That’s when I realize it.
I hate this bird.
He (or she) has no bills to pay. No spouse to please. If there are kids, he’ll just deposit some of his bird calzone into their mouths and they’ll be set for the day. The bird has no insurance woes, income tax concerns or thoughts about the pending election. The bird doesn’t know what a job is.
I hate the bird because I wish I were the bird. Not a care in the world and his day made at 7:18 AM. That’s what four months of unemployment does to you.
It makes you hate birds.