The Sparrows

Mark and his lugguage When it’s quiet, down from the plastic trees fly small birds. Sparrows; to clean up les morceaux du croissant under the tables. Their legs splay as their feet slip on the ceramic tiles.

Something orange! A crushed Tic-Tac, it’s dust too fine to peck, the broken pieces too large to swallow. They hold them in their beaks and transfer them from side to side, unable to suck, unable to chew.

One is skating. He’s fluttering: half-flying, half-running; and skidding. Giving only half his attention to his duties to keep the station clean. I think he’s the guy who ate all the medium-sized Tic-Tac pieces.