He sits patiently by the window.
He loves to always sit and wait by the window.
For the birds.
And he loves to see if he can coax them, cajole them into planting themselves atop a protruding index finger.
And he beckons them with music, these birds.
These temperate creatures with wings like paper.
And look – one is coming.
The bird watcher is sure to be silent so not to scare her away, as all great bird watchers know to do. He is still, and marvels at the tiny feet clamped to his pink finger.
He has gained her trust.
A small bird, she is. Frail like an origami crane.
So still.
And the bird watcher opens the palm of his hand, five pink fingers extended. He lets her in.
He is the best bird watcher, the only one who can gain the trust of such fleeting beauties.
And the fragility sits in his hand.
She begins to muss her feather tufts contentedly, as birds tend to do.
And she is far too content now to sing, to strain herself so much as to expand her chest.
And she peers up at the wonderful bird catcher with unmatched curiosity.
And then he kills her.
With one quick tightening of his pink fist.