Never Having Flown We only heard a small noise there being no space within the conversation to sense a simple thud in the bird cage. I saw instead a yellow crumple of feathers still breathing faintly in the hot night that we had filled with the toxic air of our imagination drifting to war and the human condition: drifting to ghost dances in the distant plains of the Great Spirit who once caged-up, starved and died under the night sky like this yellow bird never having flown. I cup it in my hand, weeping at the softness of her feathers as I place her back in her cage to die under the night sky. I should have let her fly free when she still had the strength. -Carolyn Reed 8/13/10 |