So, a bird just flew into my window.
|The scene of the incident.|
It was one of those moments that if you’re alone, you just sit and look around the room doing that “Did anyone else just see that?!” thing, then immediately feel unsatisfied because the inanimate objects you’re looking to for confirmation aren’t responding.
So, I had to blog about how a bird just flew into my window.
I was writing a really profound piece of literature while simultaneously learning how to play the violin—you know, really productive stuff that’s not at all just sitting on the couch watching re-runs of The Office—when out of my peripheral vision I saw dark feathers ruffle past the window. As soon as I turned, I heard a thump, and then the bird was gone.
I live on the seventh floor which means my exterior windows are like, never washed, so the fact that a bird accidentally flew into it sort of astonishes me. I had that stunned, delayed, and illogical reaction that caused me to get up minutes after it happened and look out the window. As if the bird would be hanging onto my ledge by its wing, hiding.
But, nope. It was gone. And all I could think about is what if the window had been open and the bird flew into my apartment? Would I have died? Would the newspaper headline try to cleverly reference Hitchcock’s “The Birds”? Or would the bird have become a fun pet that ties ribbons in my hair and listens to me sing Huey Lewis and The News songs to myself when no one’s around?
Guess we’ll never know.