A Measure of Bread

Sticking indoors after that salt fiasco was only going to sour my temper, so I walked down to the park pond. On the bench sat half a stale hot dog bun, dry as chalk and ignored by three pigeons milling about in utter indecision. Birds these days wait around expecting an engraved invitation. I hauled myself onto the wooden slat, seized the crumbly crust with both hands, and snapped it down against the edge. A satisfying crack, followed by two clean halves dropping right near their beaks. If you want results in this life, you make the first move yourself.