My writing room has a single large window that looks out onto a coast live oak. The birds and squirrels that spend their days sheltering in the oak have grown to regard the window as an extension of the tree, just as I consider the tree an extension of the window. A chickadee perches on the windowsill, then flits back into the tree to scoop up a beetle. A gray squirrel forages for acorns, then sails from branch to sill to roof. A titmouse pecks at a wasp caught in the window screen.
On more than one occasion I have looked up to find myself the object of scrutiny by a pair of small bright eyes. What must they think of me, sitting at this desk, eyes down, fingers tapping for hour upon hour? Perhaps they feel sorry for me, since I can neither fly nor leap, and I am certainly no good at catching insects, as has been revealed on more than one occasion. Maybe one day I'll just abandon my desk, climb through the window and perch in the oak tree like one of the birds. I'll eat seeds and berries, watch the bees floating in the hazy sunshine, and pity the poor human who takes my place on the other side of the window.