The Red String

I live under the roof of Union Station in Chicago.

Every morning I fly down to the platform. I look for small things. Paper. Grass. One day I find a red string from a bag, and I take it up to my nest.

Now I hope for red string every day. Red string is soft and strong. It is the best thing here.

Under me, people run. They look at the clock. They look at their phones. They do not look up.

The trains come in and the trains go out. People sit down, and the train takes them away. Everybody here is going to another place.

I am flying free above them all. My wings are quick. I can go north, or south, or over the river.

But I do not take a train. My red nest is here, under the roof, and here is my home.