Canary in a Coalmine begins with a bird hitting a woman’s window and is about how problems can escalate from such simple beginnings. Or perhaps the seeds of trouble had already been in motion for years? As a serial procrastinator, this is drawn from my own experiences, captured concisely in this family essay that has been passed down to me through the generations:
It’s often said that the early bird gets the worm, but let’s take a moment to consider the bird that doesn’t. Somewhere out there, a robin is sitting on a branch, eyeing the ground, thinking, I’ll get to it later. It’s not that this bird doesn’t want the worm—it does. It just needs to gather itself first, maybe fluff its feathers a bit, or stare into the middle distance and contemplate its existence.
Procrastination, it seems, is not just a human failing but a universal truth, and birds may be its quiet masters. Take the pigeon, for example. It is perfectly capable of flying in a straight line, yet it spends entire afternoons waddling aimlessly through city parks, cooing like it’s narrating its indecision. Seagulls, too, linger on the edge of action, debating whether to dive for the French fry or wait for an easier one to drop.
Even the most ambitious bird isn’t immune. Consider the magpie, a bird known for its hoarding tendencies. Sure, it collects shiny objects, but what does it actually do with them? Nothing. Its nest is essentially the junk drawer of the animal kingdom.
In this way, birds reveal the quiet brilliance of procrastination. They don’t stress about it, don’t try to overcome it. They perch, they pause, they wait. And when they do act, they do so with a calm assurance, as if to say, I didn’t procrastinate—I prioritized.
So next time you feel guilty about putting something off, remember the birds. They’ll get the worm eventually. Or maybe they won’t. Either way, they seem fine with it.
