Two Birds Downtown

Out my hotel window in downtown Seattle, I can see through the tall skyscrapers of tan and beige and white and grey concrete, stone, brick, some even layered like fish scales with shiny windows irridescent in the morning sun, the ferry boats and broccoli trees on islands, the ocean is an expensive bolt of blue satin stretched with waves.

They might seem like tall gravestones, these flat faced buildings, but not funereal, just large and full of gravity. They are rise up and I look down at them, griddish like graph paper, straight and stiff.

The morning breeze builds a rollercoast of wind currents and I see a happy bird sailing in loopy loops against these somber hulking offices. He's a hotdogger this guy. He's loving this pretty morning, just like me.

I look out at the bay. This Seattle is a lovely town. It gives me a sense of longing, wanting to share this view. I'm a spoiled rat to have it all to myself. I need to show it off. "Isn't it always better to share it with someone?" that thought flies through my mind as fast as the bird flew by.

I try to see where my bird has gone -- maybe visiting that ferryboat far away on the water. He's having a day at the beach, an adventure of wind and water and just plain freewheeling fun.

I turn away from the window, figuring he's gone.

I turn to the window, not sure why. He's back. There he is, and now he's got a pal to wing around with, wheeling their pointing soft arcing arms. Yes, I agree with his answer, always more fun to take your friend for a little spin than go it alone.