The breakfast meeting confirmed more of the same. Massive budget cuts to our division, sixty percent over three years, never to be overturned. Layoffs and nasty fiscal times ahead. Our department should be all right for now. We've been fundraising. Working our asses off. But you never know. A co-worker next to me whispered, "Who'll be the last rat on the ship?" or something like that.
On the way from the parking structure to my office, I noticed a speck of something on the ground. Looking closer, I saw it was a bird, a dead, baby bird. It was still intact. Fuzz around its tiny head and beak, chin against the pavement, fetal wings curled around its body … I should have moved him to the bushes. But I didn't. It didn't register what it was until I was past, far past. And I was too much of a coward to touch it. When I walked back later, the body had been crushed. Probably by a boot. Or a pair of Uggs attached to a young lady in a mini-skirt, scarf wrapped around her neck. Except it was a warm day, and the culprit probably was wearing sandals.
In other news, I went to the ballet this evening. A last minute decision. Not just to avoid the ten pages of one-act due Sunday, but also to see if a person I'd sold a ticket to was in fact a celebrity as his name suggested. And he was. That's about it. I didn't speak to him. I just watched the ballet. Scout's honor. And maybe I sat myself next to him. Because I could. I'm sure Lincoln said it best: What good is power if you don't abuse it.
Now it's time to eat the last brownie. I hid it in the microwave.
And here's a link about having your wings done http://www.guardian.co.uk/medicine/story/0,11381,665328,00.html
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