By Carla Collins
Those little brown starlings have made a home on my AC unit. I lie on my bed at night wishing I was one of them, able to fly away, anytime.
I hear them pecking and chirping in their nest. I wish they would peck a hole in the window screen and take over my bedroom. I wish they would peck a hole in my head, Hitchcockian style, till my brain pops out: then I could find the elusive treasure of sleep.
I look at the seed-like sleeping pills clutched in my palm. Crazy birds. I’ll show them how to really fly.
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