Fishing in Beirut

He loves the sound of birdsong. The gentle morning chirp, all fresh and free of chains. He stands by his window just to hear it. These birds inhabit the trees around him, the trees planted on the street below, reaching to Allah. He smokes amid early birdcalls.
It’s another sunny day in the capital. He eats bread and wants for nothing, lost in his future dream. Holy smoke, rolling. A dark blue bird alights on the ledge, head darting about, furtively. He stands motionless to observe.
The bird struts and stretches, occasionally moving its wings, but seemingly content here. It pecks at the chipped white paint. For a second it loses its footing, recovers, and then continues as if nothing had happened. It is not scared misfortune will strike again.
He waves his hand and it’s gone. Its muscles cut the air, and the wing motion sounds like a paper bag, temporarily filled by a gust of wind. The blue bird disappears. In the sunshine morning he is once again alone, framed in his window for anyone looking up.
It’s all about generating the right heat to twist metal. Then the building will collapse into itself. This was made to work before, by others, in America. He had watched in fascination. He had felt then part of something huge and humble, this holy vengeance, although he knew not the perpetrators, nor their plan. This was what was so awing. There were others out there, with similar aims, and clearly this was no coincidence. There were forces at work. Action had been commanded. He was merely a cog in a waking machine, a chosen instrument, and he would do what he would do, undoubtedly. The time was drawing near.
He lights a cigarette, and exhales. More birds circle about. His gums bleed nearly every day, red droplets splashing into the sink. He ignores this minor happening. In its way it is purification, bloodletting, and he stares at the red lines. The trickles. It’s a small and sharp reminder.
Spill your own to take from others. Show you have no fear. Whatever is requested you must do, and nothing is outside the realm of your ability. This must be understood.
Back home he had killed for belief. Soon he will do the same. The French will pay, the West will pay, Christianity will suffer as it made others do. He knows the building to hit. Sparks and rubble, and a haughty tower reduced to dust. Plans and explosives. He stands by the window smoking a cigarette, and he can see it all before him, like the mending of a wound.
He hears children below. He is returned to his surroundings. The sun hits his face, the smoke curls away, and he smiles for an instant, alone. Birds flying and chirping. The everyday and ordinary, his external life, floats around his body. Moments waft like smoke. He stands in the morning in the city of Beirut, a city which, odd as it may seem now, was once known as the Paris of the Middle East.