John Rush and an annoying bird.
Rush is certain this time, that the finch hopping on the windowsill of the Valley Junction Sheriff’s office is the same one that has been pestering him for a week now. He doesn’t assume that one can too easily tell one finch from the other. A little grey bird with a hint of orange under its wing, but this one has a recognizable edge to it. A suspicious, intrusive demeanor ill befitting a country song bird. It chirps and taps on the glass, shattering the peaceful dawn silence that Rush fiercely protects as his own. He uncrosses his legs and brings them down from an old dark oak desk, straightens in his chair and frowns at the bird. Probably, he thinks, it shouldn’t bother him this much, but he has precious little time for his diversions, and none whatsoever to share with this nosey little pest. He leans over and smacks the dusty glass window with his copy of the times and the finch flutters off. “Mind yer dang business.” He says, and goes back to his labors, knowing that the unwelcome busy body will be back, apparently none too interested in normal, finch related activities.