Crappy birds with Crappy wings

A small bird came to my window at exactly 11:11. I knew the time not because of an obsession, but because my alarm clock was the only illuminating light in my room. Well, besides the nearby street light whose light flickered every 108 seconds or so, just an estimate. I don’t believe in angel numbers, or excuse me for the inappropriate reference but, any of that David Copperfield kind of crap. Its left wing was slightly injured. I could tell because of the dried up blood against its ruffled feathers.  Its shallow chirping was somewhat comforting, comforting for me at least. I could only imagine this was a cry for help to whatever higher being birds believe in. 

Birds. 

Organized Religion. 

That David Copperfield kind of crap. 

It's a crappy thing, that is life. It starts out with a blood bath and dramatic grandmothers wishing to see their cutie patootie grandbaby.  It ends with what we all know and hate as death. D-E-A-T-H. 

[Sorry to be a crappy writer right now, the transitioning months have me stuck in a crappy mood. Crap, C-R-A-P.]

The bird though was not dying, it was simply injured. I couldn’t imagine why the bird was sitting on MY windowsill out of ALL the other windowsiles. I couldn’t imagine why the bird was out at all. It’s what us youthfully hip teens call a fake summer day. A high of 67, (insert chuckle), and a low of 52. It was only April first, not some humid night in May where the chirping would be paired with the tussle and turning of bodies trapped in loose sheets. April showers bring May flowers. It was the transition month to where the buds of flowers shy away in soil, where the birds only begin to dare to make their presence known. So why was this crappy bird with a crappy wing daring to choose me. 

Maybe it's because I was crying. Maybe it sensed the salty tears running down my face. Maybe because it knew I would get out of my warm quilt, slide on my slippers and open the window as wide as it could be to listen to the bird. Maybe it's because I pried the screen open to my dorm window, sliding a couple of seeds from the untouched bag of trail mix sent by my mother. Maybe because it knew I needed it more than it needed me. Maybe because it's April first, stupid April fools day. “You know, it’s a crappy prank your pulling bird” I whispered. I sat there almost waiting for a response. 

“”-bird. 

Anyways birds don’t belong on windowsills on the first of April when the trees remain bare and winter blues still linger.