C'est la vie

The sun rises, and there I am,
another moving spec.
The sun is bright,
but it is more light than warm.
The sun is shining and the
birds are singing-
their plot,
laughing their goal.
I go about my day as I would any other;
nothing special about today.
To them, I am
without meaning
without purpose.
Just marching around in rows.

If only they had someone
to look down upon them.

As I get into my truck,
it happens.
A drop falls from the sky
landing on my head.
I feel the warmth and wetness of
the drop.

As I run my fingers through the
jungle of my own hair,
I peer into the sky above me.
I wonder.
Could it have been?
Is it possible?
What are the odds?

As the unfortunate conclusion pours
into my head,
the angry realization flows over my face.

A bird pooped on my head!

"Ces't la vie" the French say.
Well, a bird has obviously never pooped
on the head of a Frenchman.