People Watching

“Robin, Robin, Robin—how was your day today?” Raven asked.

“Oh, productive,” Robin replied. “I spent it by the lake. People watching.”

Raven nodded approvingly. “Ah. Observing the dominant species in its natural habitat. A classic.”

“Exactly. They gather near water, stare into glowing rectangles, and throw food everywhere. It’s like a buffet with mood swings.”

Raven snorted. “Have you ever landed on their windowsills? Especially the bedroom ones?”

“Oh, constantly,” Robin said. “It’s educational. And horrifying.”

“I’ve seen rituals in there that make molting look dignified,” Raven said, chuckling. “And don’t get me started on that thing they call sex. So many steps. So little efficiency.”

“I know,” Robin laughed. “With us, it’s brief, respectful, and nobody pretends it’s a personality trait. Humans add smooching, whispering, dramatic pauses—as if someone’s watching.”

She tilted her head toward the power line above. “Come on, let’s take the wire. Best seat in the city.”

They perched side by side, surveying the world below.

“It’s peaceful up here,” Raven said. “You can see everything, and no one realizes they’re being audited.”

“Exactly,” Robin said. “It’s like living in a penthouse where the tenants below assume privacy still exists.”

Robin hesitated. “Speaking of humans… Jeff and I tried that smooching thing the other day.”

Raven froze. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Robin admitted. “I thought maybe we were missing something. Turns out we weren’t. Poor guy nearly poked my eye out with his beak.”

Raven burst into laughter. “Well, to be fair, the first time humans tried to fly like us, they strapped on fabric and jumped off cliffs.”

“You’re right,” Robin said thoughtfully. “Trial and error. Mostly error. Jeff got so embarrassed, he flew off and hasn’t been back in two days.”

“Charming,” Raven said. “What about the chicks? They want to see him, right?”

“Oh, he’ll return with food,” Robin said. “Last time he vanished, he came back with a worm so big I thought it was a baby snake.”

“LOOK OUT!” Robin squawked. “There it is again—humans attempting death while multitasking. Why do they insist on driving those metal boxes while staring at their tiny glowing gods?”

They watched the road below as a car suddenly swerved and slammed into a pole.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as humans gathered—not to help, but to watch. Some lifted their glowing rectangles, capturing the wreck from every angle, narrating tragedy to invisible audiences. Others shook their heads, already annoyed by the delay to their commute. A woman stepped around the fallen man, careful not to scuff her shoes. Traffic slowed, then flowed again, swallowing the moment whole.

Above it all, Robin and Raven remained still, unseen witnesses to a ritual they had observed countless times: brief concern, mild inconvenience, instant forgetting. The humans would call it an accident. The birds knew better—it was just another predictable outcome of distraction dressed up as chance.

Raven shook her head as the man lay motionless beside the wreck. “That’s why I stopped scavenging near roads. Used to be great—free food everywhere. Some people think the road is their garbage can. But now they swerve without warning. No wind shift. No logic. Just chaos and notifications.”

Robin sighed. “Imagine having wings and choosing not to use them.”

Raven nodded solemnly. “Girl… it’s just not safe to be human anymore.”

“Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be one of them?” Robin asked.

Raven considered it. “I have. Briefly. Then I remembered how complicated they’ve made everything. We soar. We eat. We raise our young. We sleep. We own the sky. Simple.”

She glanced down at the city. “Sure, we worry about food and predators—but compared to humans, our lives are practically guaranteed. They have everything we do and more. And yet they live drowning in anxiety, fear, jealousy, anger, hate. Honestly, you’d think they were the hunted.”

Robin nodded. “It’s strange. They have so much… and still seem so distant from peace.”

“That’s privilege,” Raven said flatly. “When everything is handed to you, cooperation becomes optional. Unity becomes inconvenient. So instead, they fight over land, over resources, over who gets to stand higher than the others. Ego, power—it’s a performance.”

She paused. “When extinction is removed from the equation, restraint stops being a teacher.”

Robin tilted her head. “Then how do you explain the evil in them? They have food. They can go anywhere. They aren’t hunted. They have shelters that don’t leak. Maybe we should switch places—let them watch us for once. Maybe they’d learn appreciation.”

“Careful,” Raven said. “Unless the same thing happens to us.”

She gestured toward a hospital across the street, where newborns lay behind glass. “They aren’t born evil. You’ve seen the babies. Pure innocence. Soft. Helpless. Perfect.”

Robin smiled. “Yeah. Cute, too.”

A silence passed.

“Then how,” Robin finally asked, “does someone born completely innocent grow into a monster?”

Raven looked back at the city. “That’s the part they never want to watch. If you’re born in heaven but raised in hell, it becomes kill or be killed.”

Robin frowned. “But how can they be living in hell when they have everything?”

“Easy,” Raven said. “The moment they monetized their world, it became every creature for itself. All those things we talked about—food, water, land, shelter—things that simply exist for us—they turned into commodities. Now they’re told they must fight for what was once freely given.”

“Who tells them to fight?” Robin asked.

Raven tilted her head. “You ever notice when it gets cold here, and we fly south? Try stopping over in D.C. sometime. Listen carefully. The ones making the deals have been making them for centuries.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed. “Politicians?”

Raven let out a soft, knowing laugh. “If only it were that simple. No, these people keep politicians on a string. And because humans believe they elect their leaders, they assume those leaders are the ones calling the shots.”

She paused, watching traffic crawl like an obedient herd. “So everyone scrambles for a slice of something they were convinced was scarce. And while they’re fighting each other over crumbs, no one looks up to see who owns the bakery.”

“Is that why they use all those bird sayings?” Robin added. “The early bird gets the worm. Kill two birds with one stone. Or my favorite—a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

Raven considered it. “I don’t think so. Maybe, in some strange way, they just want to be like us.”

Robin smiled. “Free as a bird.”

They both laughed.

Robin stretched her wings. “Time to head home. I hope Jeff’s back—I’m starving. If not, I’ll have to find something for the chicks. Worst case, I’ll swing by the lake. Humans are always good for bread or crackers.”

She paused. “It’s been fun. Same time tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Raven said. “Let’s make it interesting—bedroom windowsill. Maybe we’ll catch another one of their… rituals.”

Robin smirked. “I can’t wait.”

With a beat of wings, she lifted off. “Bye!”

Raven watched her go, then looked back down at the glowing city—busy, anxious, oblivious—and shook her head.

Humans really do love their bird metaphors.

They just never seem to understand them.