Bird

I stared out the window, watching the sleek, black birds picking hungrily at the dead squirrel on the ground below. My mind, distracted as usual, raced on, curious about why raw meat doesn't bother birds, and where the bones go when they're picked over, and why the squirrel even died in the first place. I look back at my desktop, trying to read the email in front of me, trying to decipher the little bunches of letters that cluttered the page, but I can't seem to stop thinking about dead squirrels long enough to figure it out. I move my mouse to the bottom of the screen, checking the time. 10:45 is too early for lunch. I open my desk drawer, and begin to sort the paper clips, making them all face the same direction, placing the different colors in different piles. I grab the hand sanitizer and squirt a bit into the palm of my hand, poking at the little blue dots, bursting them, and I rub it around my hands, sniffing them until the alcohol smell goes away. My eyes move back towards the window, and I glance towards the traffic signals that patrol the blocks near my building, watching them turn yellow simultaneously. I love watching those synchronized lights switch from red to green to yellow. It sure beats doing the busywork placed on my desk each morning. I can finish those stacks of paper in about half an hour, but I would never let my boss figure that out. As long as he thinks it takes all day for me to get it done, the amount of work will remain steady, and I can daydream morbidly about park animals.