A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

This morning I awoke to a crack in the window. I stared at it long enough, wondering what happened.

After breakfast I stepped outside, still in my dressing gown, to see if I could make sense of the crack from another perspective. There between my feet was a dead thrush. A bird did this, I said to myself. As if the window had nothing to do with it.