The Owl

In my office there is a shelf that stores old computers and a large porcelain owl. The owl sits high on the shelf, scowling down at me menacingly with giant glass eyes. Every day I scowl back at it: never trusting it, wishing it would crash to the ground and shatter.

Because we are moving to the new building, men have come in and removed the old computers during the past few days. Now only the owl and a laser jet printer remain on the shelf.

I am noticing that my evil feathered officemate, up there on his little porcelain stump, looks lonely.
And, upon his inevitable flight to Building 34, I will too.