A lone red-breasted bird in my yard uses his beak like tiny tongs to pick up wet, rotting maple leaves. The leaves stick together, but he manages to flip over these soggy pancakes, and delve into the underneath. He must be looking for something–bugs, maybe–because he’s very diligent and focused. He doesn’t notice me watching from the window of my office. Of course. Why would a bird notice me?
Today I awoke hating myself. The sky is gray, but the drizzle’s not mean-spirited, more half-hearted really, so there’s no good reason for me to feel depressed. I even worked out, ate salmon, and spent time with two lovely ladies. I have no right to be down, but sometimes sadness is inexplicable.
I want an explanation. I want something I can put my back into. If I knew The Why, I’d attend to it, with purpose, like that bird. He knows…
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