Puddle Birds

By Annette Rey

It’s a 97 degree day. I’m waiting at a stoplight, just exiting a superhighway. Stressed, I look to the side and see a few stray birds hopping with fervor, drinking and splashing in a small puddle of water as they ignore the horrors of man’s creations surrounding them – fumes, noise, unnatural cement surfaces, an emotionless, colorless hell. This single oasis was formed by a gash in the dry soil from the tracks of a destructive construction machine. The birds’ antics cheer me up. I am glad for them. I, like they, are thankful for little things.