THE BIRD IN THE ATRIUM
Note to self: sounds like a short story title. Think of a short story to go with it.

Now, onto the bird. My office is on the mezzanine -- also known as the open second-floor level, if you happen to be one of the many people who seem to have never encountered the word 'mezzanine' before trying to find my office -- of a Midtown Manhattan office building. The lower levels of this building are built around an atrium, stretching from the lower level food court to the fifth floor.

Although the building is fairly well-sealed, with revolving doors serving as the main point of access, on occasion one of the non-revolving doors is used. On rarer occasion, a door is propped open. And that, I assume, is how a bird got into the atrium late last week.

And it's still there, trying to find its way out.

I let building management know about the bird, but no one seems to know how to get a sparrow off a window ledge 45 feet above the floor. And so it sits there, chirping and looking out the window at its little sparrow friends, flitting around the atrium and looking for a route to freedom.

In a way, the plight of the bird in the atrium is a parable for our very existence. We are all trapped in a vast, yet restricting, space... mere observers of a world in which we can no longer be a participant, wondering if this is all our lives are meant to be.

Oh wait. No, that's not what I'm wondering. I'm really wondering how long this stupid sparrow can survive in the atrium without food and water. All that chirping is starting to annoy me.