The Window (by Owen Richards)
Johnson gave a start as the crow hit the nearby window at high speed. He looked up at the wall clock - 12:00:02 - and relaxed slightly. Every day at precisely the same time that damn crow would repeatedly smash into the pane by his desk, presumably attacking its own reflection.
His concentration disturbed, Johnson drew his lunch from his briefcase. 'Stupid bird,' he thought, as he bit into a soggy corned-beef sandwich, 'What a pointless existence that must be, banging your head against a window over and over. One of these days, you'd think it would learn and give up.'
The crow regarded the grey-suited man from its branch, eyeing him as he ate. The bird had been watching the man for as long as it could remember. It would see him in one place, sat at his desk beyond the window, from dawn until the dusk. The crow twisted its head sharply, to glance at the other people walking about in the sunshine.
'Stupid man,' thought the crow, as it launched itself into the air as hard as it could against the window, 'What a pointless existence, stuck in a tiny room, day after day. One of these days you'd think he'd notice me, and look out into the world.'
[The second short short story series is announced and explained here.]