A red balloon dirtied the otherwise blank canvas that was the sky on the cheery Tuesday morning. Not a single cloud was present for miles. Somewhere in the park was an unhappy child.
From my seat on the splintered bench, I had the perfect view of my surroundings. My location allowed me to see the best the park had to offer. People-watching was a hobby of mine ever since I was a kid. I had learned early on how easy it was to read people by watching how they walked, if they said hello to anyone they passed, or even the most minute movements of their fingers. Over time I tried all the spots frequented by people—bus stations, mall parking lots—but I liked the park best.
On my left was the glistening pond, its glass-like surface interrupted with ripples caused by a family of ducks. One of them came over to me, and out of habit I reached into my bag and pulled out a breadcrumb. The duck ruffled its wings as a thank you then waddled off back to the water.
The familiar sounds of the fountain in the center of the park and the sporadic giggles emanating from the playground drifted in and out of my awareness. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a blue jay dart into one of the trees above my head. Seconds later, it flew away again. I used this opportunity to take a closer look into the leaves. A collection of twigs, twine, and other scraps of materials were clumped together on one branch.
Deciding to stay away from the bird’s nest knowing they could be territorial, I sat back down on the bench. No sooner had I done so than the jay came back again.
I left the park at 11:15, just like I did every day. The next morning, I was back on my bench, and again the blue jay was hastily flitting about, trying to build its home. I watched he bird do this the next day, and the next day.
Rain filled the sky that Friday night. Barely an inch fell, but wind swelled around my house deep into the night. I fell asleep to the soothing, rhythmic whooshing sound. When I awoke the following morning, the sun had once again made an appearance and the ground was dry.
When I arrived at my usual spot I noticed something at the base of the tree closet to my bench. Upon closer inspection, I found that it was the nest the blue jay had been working on so devotedly. I was saddened to see the bird’s labor go to waste, and started to think of what I could do.
The only course of action that came to mind was to pick the nest up and place it back into the tree. Knowing the branch the nest had formerly resided on was out of my reach, I moved the bench over to the base of the tree, ignoring the questioning stares of those around me. Satisfied I could now reach the spot I was aiming for, I hopped off the bench to get the nest. The moment I cupped the nest in my hands, it split in half, having been weakened in the storm.
At this point I was devastated. Not only had I not been able to help the bird, but I had ended up making the situation even worse in the process. I took the nest and hid it in the bushes in an attempt to bury my guilt. Nearly heartbroken, I sat on my bench and tried to distract myself with the ducks. I froze as I noticed the blue jay fly into the tree to the spot where its nest should have been. Time crawled by, but the bird remained in the tree.
Finally, the blue jay flew away. I felt a contrast in temperature on my face and realized that I was crying. Maybe if I had not touched the nest the bird would have found a way to get the nest back into the tree on its own. Or maybe it could have rebuilt it using the pieces it had already collected. I had ruined that possibility as well, having hid the nest.
My peaceful morning ritual had lost its healing powers. Something within me begged my legs to work, to get away from this spot as fast as I could. But I couldn’t make myself go. I watched as the bird scooped up a random scrap and start all over, this time flying into a different tree.
. Your imagery is spectacular! Keep it going!