I'm Major Jackson, and this is the Slowdown.

For 15 years, every Thursday of the fall semester, I would fly from Berlin to Vermont to New

York City and back to teach a course at New York University.

Clearly, I have spent my fair share of days in airport terminals, often heavily bored,

awaiting takeoff, headphones on, watching people find their way to their destinations.

What almost always startled me was the sight of a singular pigeon or sparrow flitting

about the terminal ceiling.

My concern for my avian brother knew no end.

Was the bird lost, disoriented by the crowds below, rattled by the constant droning of

gate agents?

I said to myself, it must have gotten off course, and separated from its flock, or it's

a loner, seeking a different kind of sanctuary, one with high-end clothing stores, and six

piece chicken McNuggets.

The irony of a small bird trapped in a cavernous airport was not lost on me.

Here was the pinnacle triumph of humankind's efforts to achieve flight, blemish by the

entrapment of the very creature who served as its aerodynamic inspiration.

Then, eventually, I noticed something.

The bird wasn't at all bothered by its condition.

Forgive this moment of pathetic fallacy, it seemed to carry some inherent spirit of

endurance and adaptability, maybe even will.

In fact, it even began to chirp a song of, dare I say, persistence.

I thought of Thomas Hardy's poem Darkling Thrush.

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