by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
The diving birds reach for the breadcrumbs next to my chair. One bird is gray and the other bird is black. They eat up the breadcrumbs and fly away singing. I look up to where they go and soon lose sight of them. Sitting here at my lunch hour I contemplate life’s problems. Back at the office I have case after case of lives destroyed by madness. Do the diving birds have it easier? I know I have troubles of my own. But at least I’m not being held against my will in a psychiatric hospital. I think I’d like to be a bird for a few moments to experience the sensation of flight and improve my singing voice.
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