Birds are not that great. A bird is like an algorithm for a not-that-exciting problem, or it is like a dirty mirror in someone else’s bathroom, or it is like a hot iron with wings. It is pretty and flies and sings and doesn’t generally get in the way of you leading a happy, centered life full of meaty dilemmas and good-looking acquaintances, and yet the company of a bird is like the company of a potato, the square root of something you don’t care about. I think I would like birds better if they never came down.