A Matter of Parallel Lines
A row of wooden clothespins gripped the thin wire of the balcony drying rack. Most stood in tidy sequence—except the third one. It hung tilted at an unruly angle against the crosswire. Flawed. I hopped along the metal rail, plastic talons clicking firmly. I paused. Calculated. Leaning in with deliberate precision, I nudged the wooden peg using the side of my beak. The spring gave a slight squeak and pivoted. Perfectly vertical. Now parallel with the entire set. Beyond the railing, distant traffic hummed, but my roost remained orderly. Crest held high.