Waiting

The world is troubled yet I am a fortunate man. I have work to do and a quiet room to wait out the dystopia, a refuge where I can read and work, if only fitfully, at some small project, more for diversion than to create anything new. From my window, I see a large bird, circling. A hawk? An Eagle? I should know but I do not. The bird, unfazed by the siren of a passing fire engine, continues, wings motionless, banking in a great, sweeping arc, and drives me from my room, out the door, and onto the sidewalk.