I settled down to read on one of the four benches that were located directly in front of the door.  I had a cold drink and my current novel of choice, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.  In retrospect, I can’t think of anything more appropriate.

Before I could get comfortably situated and then engrossed in the book, I happened to look up in time to see a small bird land near the bench across from me.  I was startled to see that it didn’t have any arms.  It wasn’t wingless; it’s wings were comfortably pressed along its tiny, speckled grey body.  But, for some reason, the fat that this bird did not possess a pair of arms proportionate to its body was the most confusing and startling thing.  For the bird to have had arms would have been the most natural thing in the world; for it not to have arms seemed not only unnatural, but entirely cruel.

The shock at seeing this poor, armless bird, which was hopping along the ground, pecking here and there, was somewhat overwhelming.  I couldn’t return to my book; I had to watch this bird.  A woman sitting at another bench nearby had taken an interest in the bird as well, although I think she was somewhat charmed at my obvious curiosity at the tiny creature.  There was something both suspicious and maternal about the small peaceful smile on her aged face.

I remained engrossed in watching the bird until it hopped onto the bench across from me and then onto the low stone wall directly behind from where it took flight and was gone.  As casually as possible, although internally I was shaken, both at the bird and at my ridiculous and absurd reaction to it, I opened my book and continued reading.

Later

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