In our new office building, there’s a little bird who somehow got trapped on our floor. It’s been more than two weeks (I think), and the poor thing just couldn’t find its way out (yes, I’m calling it an “it,” ‘cause I’m not sure if it’s a boy or girl bird).
It’s just an ordinary bird, really: brown, tiny, confused. It may have gotten inside through one of the little holes in the building, and now randomly zooms over our head trying to find the way to the real world outside. I suspect sometimes it hides up in the ceiling, maybe to regroup and think of another new strategy on how best to escape this building.
Some of my officemates have attempted to catch the little bird, to bring it outside where it can fly freely and maybe meet up with its friends and tell them of that harrowing escape with that bird-eating building. But whenever my officemates approach the little bird, it just flies out of their reach in time. (Or maybe my officemates aren’t just stealthy enough? ‘Cause the little bird always always ALWAYS seems to know when they’re nearby.)
One of my officemates, L, tried leaving crumbs near her cube to feed the little bird. I feel that L, always the ever-doting momma, couldn’t go to sleep at night knowing there’s a hungry little bird inside our building who may or may not have had its dinner yet. (Instead, the crumbs she left for the little bird were practically untouched, but surprise surprise! Her stock of snack supplies went short of exactly 1 packet of crackers. Now that’s one mighty big bird gone hungry!)
Sometimes, I meet the little bird on my way to the pantry or the restroom: always flitting confusedly, wondering how the h3ll it got itself into this miserably wretched situation, regretting that moment it got curious and decided to fly into that damning hole, uncertain if it could ever trust itself again, and quite possibly, ever on the lookout for a way out.
Poor little birdie. I know exactly how that feels.
