On Sunday Rachelle and I went out for dinner at La Societe with my mother and sister.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a hot night and most people were sitting out on the patio, but we were inside at a booth that had a view overlooking Bloor Street. <\/span><\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

As we studied our menus, a bird flew in through the open doors leading to the patio and with a feathery thud, hit the window directly behind our table, and then slid out of sight into a narrow channel that dipped behind the restaurant’s banquettes and between the windows.<\/span><\/p>\n

The staff seemed indifferent to this small calamity, more concerned with keeping the operation running smoothly than rescuing the tiny bird. For a variety of reasons, our table was incapable of physically rescuing the bird, as well as being unable to persuade anybody else to do what we could not. <\/span><\/p>\n

The slender alley in which the bird was trapped wasn’t wide enough for it to fully extend it’s wings, but it kept trying. Flapping madly but futilely, it struggled to lift itself out of the mysterious and disorienting circumstance into which it had suddenly arrived. It would rise up, and then just a tiny bit more, almost to the lip of freedom, and then exhausted from the effort, collapse.<\/span><\/p>\n

There was nothing we could do, and the bird, subject to an indifferent environment it could not comprehend, fought again and again. And throughout the meal we heard the small, determined sounds of struggle, of something almost taking flight and finding the release of infinite horizon. <\/span><\/p>\n

Glum and distracted, on one of the saddest nights conceivable, we sat there eating amidst the repetition of heroic failure– each one of us<\/span><\/span>\u00a0not having to work too hard to find a parallel situation in our own lives, each one, rooting like hell for that bird.<\/span><\/p>\n

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